


What Will I Become?

by Emono



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, America bashing, Anxiety Disorder, Boot Worship, Boss/Employee Relationship, Crab Fishing AU, Daddy Issues, Dangerous Situations, Dom/sub Undertones, Eventual Smut, Fishing, French Characters, Knowledgeable Virgin, Les Misérables References, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Royalty kink, Virginjolas, Wet Dream, Will be boring at first, kind of Daddy Kink
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-20
Updated: 2013-10-29
Packaged: 2017-12-29 21:57:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 28,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1010585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emono/pseuds/Emono
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire didn't know where his life was going, all he knew was that he didn't want his father in it. Cutting out all his family but his cousin Courfeyrac, he finds himself poor and in financial strife. Thankfully his beloved cousin has a solution - working wit him on a crab boat in Dutch Harbor. In the states, he spots an Adonis among sheep but can't bring himself to go up to him. As it turns out, the golden beauty is his cousin's captain - HIS captain. </p><p>How will Grantaire hold up to being stuck on a fishing boat with the man he promised his cousin he wouldn't love?<br/>And how will Enjolras - the virgin skipper with less than innocent thoughts - handle the whirlwind that is his friend's baby cousin?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. To Meet Apollo In A Bar

**If you clicked on this, I thank you for giving it a chance. I know, I know - _crab fishing._ But hear me out! Wet!Grantaire, slipping in Boss/Employee play, totally giving it a D/s vibe. And what is E/R without some dom/sub play, huh? I'm going to post three chapters so I beg you  - plead you even - to give those three a chance. Get to know the ABC, check out the start of the relationships, and see if it's for you.**

* * *

 

Courfeyrac had his gloves clutched between his hands, wringing them until they squeaked. He watched his captain with a close eye, trying not to see too eager.

 

“Jehan was an idiot,” the older man reclined in in his seat, steel blue eyes set out the window, “Is this boy an idiot?”

 

“No, sir.”  
  


“How hold did you say he was?”

 

Courfeyrac watched the man light up a cigarette, taking an almost delicate puff that barely made the end glow, “Twenty-one.”

 

“Another child,” was huffed out on the end of a laugh, “You want me to bring a kid onto my boat? Isn't it bad enough I let a woman on board, do you want me to invite every ill omen?”  
  


“He can be a hard-worker-” he winced at his choice of words.

 

“ _Can?_ ” this laugh was full force, “You're out of your mind.”  
  


“He just needs some guidance,” Courfeyrac corrected himself, “A firm hand is all it will take to put him back on track. He's a good kid and I have faith in him to exceed both our expectations.”

 

“Considering mine are rock-bottom, that wouldn't be hard,” the captain flicked through the pack of resumes he'd been sent, “I have twenty other Frenchman ready to go. Some with years of experience. What makes you think I should give this kid a chance?”

 

“Because he's my family,” Courfeyrac pointed out, “No one's ever given him a chance. His father's never treated him right and I'm all he has in the world. At least all that will talk to him. He won't stray to a different boat, he won't blab secrets, and once he's decided to give his all it's impossible to break that determination. I'm taking him five thousand miles from home and I guarantee he won't put up any more than a token protest. You can't buy that kind of loyalty.”

 

“You said his last name was Blagden?” the older man took another hit off his cigarette, sneering at the taste, “I think our fathers know each other.”

 

Courfeyrac's eyes fell shut, “And if you mention that, he'll bolt.”  
  


“It's that bad?” the captain's voice was uncharacteristically soft, startling the younger man.

 

“Y-Yes, sir.”

 

Another sigh, another puff.

 

“Bring him,” a strong finger was jabbed in his direction, “But don't expect anything. If I don't like the look of him, he's going back.”

 

A large grin broke out across Courfeyrac's face, “Of course!”

 

“And try not to look so damn pleased about it!”

 

He forced it down a notch, actively avoiding the captain's blazing stare, “Yes, sir.”

 

********

 

“You can't make money like this.”

 

Grantaire took a long drag off his cigarette, the low tip threatening to burn the cradle of his fingers. He huffed the smoke out like a dragon, letting it linger around his head like a temporary veil. His cousin, Courfeyrac, was rifling through his sketches and half finished painting. Courfeyrac, like the rest of his family, thought he was wasting his life here in his studio. It was the same story every time they spoke of it and if they didn't change their tune a little he was going to stop listening.

 

Fuck the lot of them.

 

Courfeyrac plopped down on the floor, running a weary hand over his face. Some of the charcoal from his deer sketching smeared across his cheek. It made him smile.

 

Okay, maybe not 'Rac.

 

Courfeyrac was a good guy. Honest, strong, passionate, and particularly charismatic in the way Grantaire could never be. Truth be told they were very different men who just happened to share a mop of tar curls and mothers who were sisters. But they'd grown up together, their moms had been practically codependent. They'd lived across the same street, gone to the same schools, and still spoke every day despite the distance. They were real friends, a rare thing in this harsh life, and a little friction over his career wasn't going to drive a wedge between them. If dropping out of college hadn't destroyed them, nothing would.

 

“Your rent's due,” the older man sighed, “I ran into your land lord at the foot of the stairs.”

 

“You shouldn't have done that,” Grantaire drawled, stretching his toes into the beam of sunlight that had snaked through his blinds, “I've been successfully ignoring him all week.”

 

“You're lucky he knows how your dad is,” Courfeyrac set aside the stack of drawings, “If he didn't think you'd be homeless, he'd kick you out today.”  
  


“Let him,” the artist muttered around the stick, glaring at nothing in particular, “The park's nice this time of year. I'll sleep on a bench until I find somewhere else.”

 

“Don't you get it, R? There is nowhere else.”

 

Courfeyrac wasn't wrong. He'd hit up every city south of Paris trying to find a place where no one knew his father or his family, but with the man's fat fingers in everything it was hard to get a good job going without his employer discovering who exactly he was. The moment he was on the radar his father found him, sending a car or a lackey to try and bring him home.

 

Agde was as far as he could get from Paris without toppling into the sea. The town was small and wrung out, barely twenty thousand people in twenty square miles. There was room to breathe here and the people didn't care about his last name. Unfortunately, he'd burned every bridge to get there. He'd shut out life-long friends, snubbed family, gone through every art dealer in every city but by the time they agreed to buy or show his work his father had already found a way to them and warned them off.

 

Despite Agde's beautiful setting and history, no one was interested in what he was putting out. It didn't help that lately he was in a rut.

 

“When was the last time you sold something?” Courfeyrac sat on the bed across from him, head cocked down to meet his eyes, “When was the last time you ate?”

 

“I'm not coming to live with you,” Grantaire protested weakly. It was the same thing every time he came down, an adjustment to his family's song that he didn't mind. His cousin had a nice house in Lyon that he filled with beautiful people and too much wine. He would thrive there, he always had in his visits, but the last thing he wanted to do was become a burden.

 

“Grantaire. My baby cousin,” the older boy put a fist under the other's chin, tilting it up, “I can't let you sit here and rot without money. You're so tired, and scruffy.”

 

He ran a thumb through his cousin's dark rasp of beard, “Look at this.”

 

“I'll have you know this makes me look quite serious!” Grantaire laughed, shoving the man's hand away.

 

“There's a smile,” Courfeyrac leaned back on his hands, “So...what are you going to do?”  
  


“Move again, I guess,” he shrugged, leaning against the wall and bringing his cigarette up again, “Maybe go east this time. He won't find me in Germany, I'm sure.”

  
“You'd leave France?” dark brows shot up to his hairline, “You love her.”

 

“I do,” Grantaire sighed out a thick stream of smoke, “But I'm...I'm just not doing well here, 'Rac.”

 

They were quiet for a long time, simply sitting and smoking and thinking. By the time Grantaire finally stubbed out the bud, his cousin was shifting nervously and plucking at the edges of his knitted blanket until a few of the threads came loose.

 

“I can get you a job,” Courfeyrac spoke softly, knowing how easily his cousin got upset.

 

“No,” Grantaire crossed his arms over his chest, digging his feet into his bed in his own little tantrum, “I'm an artist.”

 

“R-”

 

“I'm also complete shit at any other occupation,” the boy finally admitted, lower lip quivering for just a brief moment, “I'm a klutz, you know that. I drop and break everything, I can't follow orders, and no boss I've ever had has liked me. I get bored with everything too fast and nothing seems...I don't know. _Challenging_ , I guess.”

 

The boy's dark brow furrowed, “You can rock climb, can't you?”  
  


“I can free run,” Grantaire corrected, “It's called parkour. I've told you about it.”  
  


“Well, I have an opening at my job,” Courfeyrac scrubbed a hand through his hair, curls going astray, “It's dangerous, it's exciting, but you can smoke all you want.”

 

The younger glanced over at him, “I'm listening.”

 

“You'll get hurt, a lot,” Courfeyrac made a face, “I wouldn't want you to do it if the money wasn't stunningly good. You've got to work with a lot of machinery. Not right away, though, you'll have to work your way up. If you're not careful, you could...R, you could die.”

 

“Jesus,” Grantaire bristled, though his nerves were alight for a different reason, “How do you do it?”

 

“I can function on two or three hours of sleep,” the taller boy shrugged, “I'm young, I'm strong, and the heavy work load keeps my mind clear. Between the adrenaline rush and the constant moving, you don't have a lot of time to wonder what you're doing with your life.”

 

“Don't tell me the wonderful Courfeyrac has doubts about his life decisions? Don't tell me he's human?” Grantaire jested though his mind was buzzing with the prospects of a job that would test him. It sounded like a chance to really prove himself but that seemed too good to be true.

 

“It's quite a trip from here,” the older tisked, “It's almost a full day's flight. It's a big commitment if you agree. It'll be a week if you don't get it, four weeks of work if you do.”

 

“Four weeks?” the artist's nose scrunched up in disbelief, “How much are we talking about here for only four weeks of working?”

  
“I made a little more than eleven thousand euro in my last trip,” Courfeyrac revealed.

 

Grantaire whistled lowly, “That's impressive. That's more than I make in a year.”

 

“The captain guarantees at least nine thousand every trip or else he endorses you for your time.”

 

“Is that normal?”

 

“Of course not!” Courfeyrac barked out in a laugh, “He's just particularly ruthless in success. If he doesn't get it, he blames himself. It's a hard system but it's worth it.”

 

“For that kind of money, it is.”

 

“Will you try?”

 

He looked into his cousin's doe eyes and didn't know how to refuse, “I don't have much of a choice.”  
  


“Excellent!” Courfeyrac jumped up, dragging the younger boy up into a fierce hug, “You're going to love it! Pack warm, get your shaving stuff, your passport, and grab as much food as you have. I'll take care of everything! I'm going to go buy the tickets now! We don't have a lot of time, the season starts in just a week.”

 

Courfeyrac was halfway out the door before he managed to ask the real question.

 

“What do you do?”

 

The dark haired boy paused at the door and shot him a wink, “I'm a fisherman.”

 

********

 

“Crab fishing?!”

 

It was not the first time Grantaire had screamed the phrase and it wouldn't be the last. Not since his cousin had explained just what kind of fisherman he was. After some googling on his Courfeyrac's tablet he was horrified by what awaited him in Alaska of all places. All that he owned was in the duffel strapped across his back, everything from his wallet to his only hair comb. He'd converted all his money to ( _ugh_ ) US currency and it all came down to forty bucks.

 

“Crab fishing in the states,” Grantaire trailed after his fast-paced companion, “In America of all places. Are you insane? There are documentaries made about how lethal this is! You've been doing this for _how_ long without telling me? Does your mother know? Does _mine_?”

 

“Not really,” Courfeyrac admitted, fists deep in his pockets as they headed down the sidewalk with a heading toward the dock, “ _Mere_ thinks I'm just catching catfish or bass on a small rig just outside of Wales. As far as she knows, I have a girlfriend out here and we're getting along _swimmingly_.”

 

Courfeyrac laughed at his own joke but now was not the time.

  
“I can't believe you fish in October,” Grantaire zipped up his simple black jacket, the sky clear and the weather nice but the wind was starting to nip, “This is crazy. This is insane!”

 

“But that's half the fun,” Courfeyrac declared, turning around briefly to flash his cousin a grin, “Come now, where's your sense of adventure? It used to be stronger than mine. What happened to the boy who chased faeries in the woods and dreamed of becoming a pirate? You've always loved the sea.”

 

Grantaire cast his eyes toward the vast Bering Sea that stretched out toward their left, where the town gave way to the boardwalk. The dock seemed to dominate a large chunk of the island and it was quickly coming into view. The sea churned and slapped, filling the air with saline and the sound of the ocean. It was rougher than the Mediterranean sea he was used to, the Bering seemed to have a bit more personality to her. The longer he looked the more he spotted, rusted hauls laying on their side in the water where they hadn't quite made it back to port in one piece. It should've been chilling but he found a different kind of tingle working through him, something akin to excitement.

 

It was strange to see his cousin in camouflage. With that smile on his face and the high-necked jacket kissing his jaw, he looked almost American.

 

“It's better to blend in,” Courfeyrac reminded him, plucking at the collar his cousin was staring at, “All those English lessons have paid off. We can all almost pass for a yank.”

 

“Who's 'we'?”

 

“The crew,” the older man rolled his eyes, “The captain only hires Frenchmen. He says they're the only trustworthy ones. The yanks don't like that he has a successful boat. Their mostly natives here, a lot of the bigger rigs are run out of Seattle or...some other large city in the states. I'm not sure. Their geography is all garbled over here. I don't know how they find anything. Anyway, they give him and his family a hard time. He's always at odds with them.”

 

“And they really treat him like that because...?”

 

“Because he's French.”

 

“That's ridiculous,” Grantaire scowled, finally catching up, “Listen, 'Rac, I have jetlag from hell and the sun's going down. Can't we get something to eat before this mysterious captain of yours evaluates my worth? I'd rather not get torn down on an empty stomach.”

 

Courfeyrac wanted to assure him that it wouldn't be like that but he couldn't lie to his cousin, “There's a pub the boys usually go to. They've got great burgers.”

 

“Greasy, American food,” he spat, fishing out his pack of smokes, “How's the beer?”  
  


“Pretty good.”

 

******

 

Two smooth, dark beers in his gullet and he was feeling right at home.

 

“I fuckin' love this,” Grantaire shoved more fries in his mouth, lapping salt and ketchup off his fingertips, “If there was a God, I would be praising his name because this is the best food I've ever had.”  
  


“Cheers to that!” Courfeyrac knocked their mugs together, slurping down some more, “You better get your fill now. There's no drinking on the ship.”

 

“Whatever,” he rolled his eyes, taking another bite of heavy burger, “This guy is going to take one look at me and shove me off the dock. I'm young, stupid, and I'm not half the size some of these guys are.”

 

He spoke of the other patrons. Hardy men with beards and ball-caps, thick shoulders under cotton hoodies. English and some other garbled tongues passed through them all and groups laughed at bawdy jokes. Calloused hands pinched the rears of the dark eyed waitresses and the bar gleamed with shine and spilled shots. It was a man's pub. Courfeyrac seemed to blend in nicely, his cousin said he lifted weights in his spare time and he'd carved a fine body for himself.

 

But Grantaire knew what laid beneath his clothes. A soft tummy from too much liquor, Skinny muscles that got used to sculpt and paint, and legs that only had enough strength to launch him over trashcans. He was good at free running, he really was. He could climb a staircase sideways with only fingerless gloves and some chalk. There was strength inside his body but it was hidden.

 

“Another round!” Courfeyrac called, waving at the bartender and getting a thumbs up, “Their gestures are so strange. A thumb.”

 

“It's catching on. Thank the internet,” Grantaire finished up his beer, digging back into his fries with a gusto, “So what's the plan?”  
  


“I'm going to present you to the captain tomorrow morning at the crack of dawn,” his cousin explained, pausing to thank the waitress as she delivered their beers rather swiftly, “If he approves, you'll meet the crew and start preparing the boat for the journey. We'll need food, we have to clean the boat down, gear and bait needs prepared. Unfortunately, we're late. Fortunately, we have permission. The crew might give us a hard time.”  
  


“I'm used to that,” Grantaire slowed, swirling a fry through the red sauce. He could still avidly remember the harsh playgrounds of his youth, the way the boys would tug at his hair and call him girly or weak just because he was pale. He'd always been compact and kids were cruel. They'd thrown his backpack into the river, shoved him into snow drifts, and would shoulder-check him in the hall whenever they had a chance. It slowed as he got older but those middle years had been pure torture. Getting a little ribbing from fully grown adult men was pale in comparison to having a class laugh at you for botching an answer in front of the teacher.

 

“Hey,” the older man laid a hand on his shoulder, catching his attention, “If they go too far, tell me. I've been on this boat a while and I've got some pull. The guys respect me and if they push it, I'll fill their shoes with shredded cod.”

 

That got a grin out of his cousin.

 

“You'll get their respect too. It just takes time on these boats.”

 

“Again: This guy is going to hate me,” Grantaire's grin became exaggerated, cheeks pulling, “If you haven't noticed, I'm kind of homeless looking. I'm a miscreant. If he lets me on his boat, he's an idiot.”

 

“You're a shit,” Courfeyrac glanced down at his watch, “We'll finish this and then head to the hotel. We're going to need a full night's sleep for tomorrow. Go pay the tab.”

 

Grantaire accepted the strange bills and coins, trying to remember everything he'd ever learned about the dollar. It had been so long since he'd had money, let alone seen foreign currency, that he was struggling to remember all the rules. He scooted out of the booth and headed up to the bar, leaning on the dark wooden surface with his weight on his elbows and toes. He gave a little whistle at the barmaid and she scowled in return, pointedly looking away. He shot her two fingers before he remembered that it didn't mean the same here in the states.

 

“Stupid Americans,” Grantaire muttered, settling in for a wait. His eyes skittered along the bar, passing over the hulking forms until they fell on the end. The far side was nearly bare except for one patron. A man, a young one. He was clean shaven and sun-kissed, his hair golden and a stark white collar framing the graceful line of his neck. Most artists Grantaire knew would've called him too strongly boned, too severely featured, the laugh lines carved into his cheeks making his face appear too long. Useless as a model.

 

Grantaire would've clocked them all in their stupid jaws and declared them wrong. The creature at the end of the bar was...breathtakingly tragic. Handsome, immaculate, every feature carved out of marble and perfectly smooth. The man moved to look behind him, eyes glazed from alcohol, and by doing so showed off the muscular line of his body. Oh, what a physique he must have had beneath that half-ass suit.

 

Any other time, Grantaire would've lost his head and gone up to the man. Introduced himself, told him how handsome he was, and would ask for a date or a pose. He wanted at least a sketch of the beauty in front of him. It would be a true mistake to let an opportunity go.

 

But the man looked tired, worn down by the world and her worries. Two silver bands, wide and thin, shined on his ring and forefinger. He tapped his digits against the bar, one finger lingering on the rim of an empty shot glass.

 

Grantaire couldn't bother someone like that, not someone so beautiful. The last thing the golden man needed was some cocksucker who stank of beer and desperation mooning all over him. Not tonight.

 

So with a silent farewell and a muted kiss in the man's direction, Grantaire left their money on top of check and headed back to his table. And as the two cousins finished off their beers and traded stories, he had force himself not to keep looking at the bar.

 

Eventually the man disappeared and all was forgotten.

 

* * *

**So**   **if you stayed to the end of this, I give you another thanks. Gifset for this chapter is[here](http://emono-omae.tumblr.com/post/64527189683/the-creature-at-the-end-of-the-bar).**

**And (NEW THINGS) I have a[new blog for my E/R fanfiction](http://paintandcrabs.tumblr.com/). It'll contain all the gifsets, quotes, promo pics, and other stuff will all be put here. For this fic and "[You Paint What You Can't Have](845672/chapters/1615083)".**

**My personal blog is[here](http://emono-omae.tumblr.com/), if you'd like to check out my multifandom mess**

 

 


	2. The First Day/The Clash/The Feeling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire officially meets Enjolras. Feelings are stirred up.

Grantaire yawned so hard his jaw cracked, feet dragging on the ground as he followed his beloved cousin to the docks. They passed by several large boats, all different colors and shapes and designs. At first he tried to guess which one they were heading too but eventually the fog on the sea seemed to fill up his head. The sun was barely visible, the whole town bathed in milky white and little spots of pink. He was starting to think to it was all a big joke and the place was a graveyard until he saw the dots and scurry of men on board those vessels. Some in neon easy-to-see colors while others clad themselves in black. They all had one thing in common: Their heads were lowered and they were concentrating on their job.

 

“There, that's us,” Courfeyrac gestured forward, spreading a palm across the younger man's back, “Isn't she beautiful?”

 

The ship was indeed impressive. She was wide and tall, originally made for fishing by the looks of her. She was piled high with what looked like cages and his brief internet searching last night supplied him with the term “crab pots”. She had a white top and a crimson bottom, like the neckline of a fair woman in a low cut dress. She was pulled close to the dock and was firmly anchored, despite soft motion of the waves that rocked it. There was a thick metal plank securing the side of the boat to the dock, creating a make-shift bridge.

 

There were already men in heavy shoes and caps mulling about on the boat, knotting ropes or tightening up chains on the pots. There was so much, he couldn't fathom how many jobs would need doing. He only spotted five people, all different heights and kinds milling around. They seemed lively enough for the first hour of daylight.

 

On the side, painted in slanted type, was the name _Liberté._

 

“Oi!” one of the men climbed up on the ropes, peering at them from beneath his cap before smiling, “ 'Feyrac! You showed up!”

 

“I always do,” Courfeyrac went to greet the man (a boy, really) and got grabbed into a hug. They laughed and clapped each other on the back, a familiar embrace. Grantaire felt the blood rush to his face as he realized just how outside of all this he was. His cousin was greeted with more smiles and manly hugs, fists digging into his curls and hands tugging teasingly at his jacket. They seemed to be friends here, tight-knit in the way they closed ranks.

 

Even here he'd be alone.

 

“Who's this?” a skinny boy with a pinched, worried face asked.

  
“Joly, this is my cousin,” Courfeyrac replied, gesturing for the younger boy to follow him. Grantaire stepped up onto the plank but was stopped but a sharp shout in French, an order to freeze. The crew went quiet, all eyes shooting up to the wheel house.

 

“Why?” the artist blurted out. Out of the corner of his eye he saw his cousin drop his face into his palm, muttering something he couldn't hear but he knew was said in exasperation.

 

Then he spotted him. The man from the bar.

 

The blonde was coming down the stairs from the wheelhouse, disappearing under the covering of machinery for a moment before emerging onto the deck like a storm. He he had a cigarette between his full lips and he was coming right at him, stride sure and carrying all the authority the other men seemed to give him. His clothes were more practical now but just as clean cut, a far cry from the rest of the crew's thick clothing.

 

“Why?” the man gritted out, smoke pouring out with each word, “Because this is my boat and you won't set foot on it until I've deemed you worthy.”

 

“Is that rule for everyone or just the particularly scruffy?” Grantaire couldn't believe what was coming out of his mouth, his hand busy rubbing over the severe five 'o clock shadow he'd sprouted overnight, “I knew I should have shaved.”

 

“You think that's funny?” the golden man plucked the cigarette out of his mouth, flicking ash with a twitch of his thumb, “Oh good, because what I look for in my fisherman is a good sense of humor. Four weeks is just unbearable without some little snot-nosed brat making painfully unfunny quips every few minutes.”

 

“Uh...”

 

The older man raised an eyebrow, “Is all your eloquence in your supposed humor?”

 

“No, you're just really intimidating,” Grantaire blurted, “And I've been told my biggest defense mechanism is my mouth, so – yeah – talking.”

 

One of the men behind them snickered but was quickly silenced.

 

“Mechanism?” the captain sounded amused, “Big word for someone from – where was it?”

 

“Paris,” Courfeyrac supplied.

 

“Agde, actually,” Grantaire shot his cousin a withering look.

 

“Agde,” the man seemed to taste the word, flicking ashes thoughtfully, “That's hugged by the Mediterranean. Nice water there, very calm. People have tamed that sea for decades, it's practically domesticated. You won't find that here. This lady is choppier, colder, and much more unforgiving. She eats people alive.”

 

Grantaire knew he should've been scared but the way the older man spoke about the sea made him yearn for something he wasn't quite sure of.

 

The captain put the cigarette back between his lips, “Let me see your hands.”

 

He instinctively shoved his hands behind his back, “What?”

 

“I won't ask you again.”

 

Grantaire slowly pushed them back out, palm up and held before the captain. The man grabbed them from beneath, sending a shock up through the ravenette's arms. He let out a small stuttery breath as cold rings grazed the back of his knuckles. The captain's fingers were rough in thick patches, rasping against his softer skin in a way that gave him shivers. The older man twisted them this way and that, analyzing them on a system Grantaire knew nothing about.

 

“Strange texture,” he muttered around the cigarette, glancing up briefly, “What are you?”  
  


“An artist,” Grantaire replied honestly, pulling a face as he realized how that sounded.

 

“That's paint, then,” the man flicked a fingernail into a messy nail bed, a fleck of red from his last portrait coming up. It was a few more tense moments before his hands were dropped and the captain puffed properly.

 

“Count yourself a fisherman as well,” he finally stated, nodding to himself like an affirmation, “This is the first time we've had an artist on board. What's the harm? 'Feyrac, you'll be in charge of him. Show him the ropes. I want him scrubbing and cleaning and learning how to bait before we set out. Not on the day of, _before._ ”

 

“I-I got it?” Grantaire gaped, an honest shock sweeping through him.

 

“Don't be stupid, of course you're on,” the captain scoffed, “I want you geared up and ready to start within the hour. One minute past and you'll be grinding bait without gloves, got it?”

 

“Is that a punishment?” he asked dumbly, getting another face-palm from his cousin.

 

“Fucking kids,” there was a another roll of smoke, “The boys will tell you exactly how things work around here, I don't have time to screw around on the deck all day. Get going.”

 

“Wait!”

 

The captain actually paused, back still toward the younger man.

 

“What's your name?”

 

“Enjolras,” the blonde flicked a look at him over his shoulder, “That's 'Captain' to you, though.”

 

The crew were still gaping and whispering by the time Enjolras disappeared into the wheelhouse, but the intercom came to life the moment he realized they were dawdling.

 

“ _I want to see movement down there! I'm not paying you to reenact a zombie movie, for God's sake._ ”

 

One of the guys, the younger one that had greeted Courfeyrac so warmly, started dragging his feet with his arms held aloft and his head to the side. After a round of laughter, the deckhands sprang back to life and started back on their assigned tasks.

 

Courfeyrac grabbed his cousin around the neck, dragging him back off the boat, “What the hell was that?”

 

“I'm sorry,” Grantaire staggered under the pressure, “I just didn't expect that.”

 

They were a good distance away from the boat before he was released.

 

“Expect what?”

 

Grantaire could feel the dopey smile on his face but he couldn't help it, “For him to be so beautiful. Ow!”

 

A punch to the shoulder made him recoil.

 

“What the hell was that?”  
  


“No.”

 

“What?” he whined, rubbing the sore spot.

 

“Grantaire, I'm serious,” Courfeyrac looked fearsome, “Don't flirt with my captain.”

 

“Yours?” he echoed thoughtfully, “Are you already carrying a torch for him?”  
  


“Not in that way,” his cousin made a face, “He's my friend. He's a good, troubled man with a past I'd rather not get into. I know how overbearing you can be with your interests. I don't want you to freak him out. We both need this job and I'd appreciate it if you didn't make this weird.”

 

Grantaire knew what he said was the truth. He didn't often half-love something. He coveted, clung, and usually scared his lovers off within the first few weeks. A sea-hardened captain who obviously took no foolishness wouldn't have time to gently let him down or (worse) play around with him.

 

“Besides,” Courfeyrac looked horribly uncomfortable, “He doesn't actually do...”

 

“What? Guys?” Grantaire snorted, “Losers?”

 

“People.”

 

“What do you mean 'people'?”  
  


“He doesn't date or anything,” Courfeyrac clarified, the trips of his ears flushed from either the cold or nerves, “We're pretty sure he's never had sex. Marius grew up with him and said he'd never seen him so much as kiss someone. Even in the pub, he doesn't talk about relationships.”

 

“A virgin?” Grantaire gaped back at the rig, “That golden Greek god has never been touched by mortal fingers?”

 

“Maybe, I don't know. Quit it,” his cousin bit out, grabbing him by the jacket and pulling him towards the shops, “Don't repeat any of this. He's _your_ captain now too. Please, _please_ don't mess this up this early.”

 

Courfeyrac sounded truly worried and it made his chest ache. It was as close as the older boy had ever gotten to being disappointed and he couldn't handle it. He could let this one go. Discovering the depths and untouchable beauty of Enjolras's soul wasn't worth having his cousin upset with him to any degree. He could let this fresh feeling go, no matter the temptation.

 

“Alright.”

 

The hand fell from his arm, “What?”

 

“I said, alright,” Grantaire laughed, “No chiseled face is worth your good graces.”

 

“Thank you,” his cousin let out a huge breath, like he'd been holding it since they got off the boat, “I'm going to buy you all the gear you'll need. Boots, hat, jacket, oil skin. Don't look at me like that, you'll pay me back by doing well. Later I'll teach you how to put it all on.”

 

“I can dress myself, 'Rac.”  
  


“This is my first time training a greenhorn, don't spoil it for me.”

 

“What in the hell is a _greenhorn_?”

 

“It's a new person on a crab boat,” his cousin gestured vaguely, “Training one means you're pretty important and reliable. Handling you is the captain's way of saying he trusts me and I'm not about to muck it up by blurring over the details. By the end of this month, you're going to be the best fisherman Dutch Harbor has ever seen.”

 

******

 

His new boots grabbed the ground so well they couldn't even leave a black streak on the store's tile floor. They were probably the best pair of shoes he'd ever worn.

 

******

 

Grantaire caught sight of himself in the shop window and he had to stop.

 

“This is so wrong,” he muttered, turning to get every angle. His cousin had shoved him into a black hoodie that hugged his neck and shapeless orange pants held up a tight belt and suspenders. The straps were thick and off-black, laying tight across his chest and shoulders. He looked more rugged and he was warmer, that much was certain, but the way the whole thing cinched his waist made the whole thing come off...soft. Courfeyrac looked like a real fisherman, he just looked like a kid playing in his big brother's clothes. Apparently they didn't come in 'narrow-waisted'.

 

“I think I'm disproportionate,” he declared after a long minute of inspection.

 

“You look good,” Courfeyrac pinched at the roll of his belly that showed, “You'll work off the puppy fat in a week.”

 

Grantaire slapped his hand away, cheeks coloring up, “Piss off!”

 

“I didn't mean it that way, R, don't be like that,” his cousin instantly soothed, “There's nothing wrong with your body. You've always had a tummy.”

 

“You're an asshole,” Grantaire picked at the cloth over his stomach, “Forgive me for not wanting to starve myself to fit societies twisted sense of male beauty.”

 

“R-”

 

“Weights are the anchor of the soul and the bench press is the throne we will ride into ego and inevitable self-destruction.”

 

“Just hurry,” but Courfeyrac was smiling.

 

********

 

Grantaire had never moved around so quick in his life, especially with two layers of clothing on. At first he'd felt weighed down, congested, but then the cold wind had picked up and he'd become grateful. His nose was numb but his hands were toasty all strapped up into his thick gloves. He'd grown an inch all over and ten pounds of clothing, but after an hour or so he barely felt it.

 

Courfeyrac showed him around under and above deck, quick on the former with an explanation that he'd see it enough. The top deck was an intricate system of towering seven hundred pound pots and pulleys and hydraulics. There was a crane, a sorting table, and a hundred ways to die that had nothing to do with going overboard. He learned that more than six minutes in the water was almost a guaranteed death sentence.

 

There was enough rope to wind a thousand nooses and every bit of it needed to be tightly coiled and stuffed into pots or containers. Courfeyrac carefully talked him through the process he'd be expecting, showing him step by step how to haul a pot and anchor it down before shaking it loose and pouring the crab (or whatever came up) into the table before sorting it. He found out how to open the tank and how it worked, his cousin's earlier lessons on boat anatomy and care getting built upon as he was shown each new thing.

 

Grantaire was never more thankful for his artist's memory than he was when learning his new job. Everything was complicated and there were steps and names of equipment he'd never seen and would be expected to use the moment they were out on open sea.

 

He only got overwhelmed once and his compassionate cousin let him squat at the side of the boat to catch his breath.

 

“This is...there's so much,” he didn't want to complain this early but it was hard with zero fishing experience under his belt.

 

“No one expects you to be a master right away,” Courfeyrac laughed, rubbing his back sweetly, “You just have to keep up and pull your own weight. If you don't know what to do, say it. Never guess, though. Guessing leads to accidents.”

 

“Did you struggle when you started?”

 

“Oh yeah,” Courfeyrac pushed up his sleeve, revealing a puckered scar laced across his milky forearm, “I was climbing on pots I'd just tied together but my knots weren't tight enough and I fell between them. A latch caught on my arm and I dragged it all the way down before I realized what was going on. I've threaded the wrong lines, I've nearly gone overboard, I've fallen into the tank, I've even put others lives at stake with my stupid choices.”

 

He ran a hand through his younger cousin's matching dark curls, “That's why I want to teach you everything I've learned. I don't want anything to happen to you.”

 

“Then why'd you bring me here?” again, he sounded ungrateful when he was anything but.

 

There was a faraway look in the older man's eyes before he slapped on a grin, hiding his concern behind mirth, “To make money, of course!”

 

******

 

Grantaire stared openly at the blonde standing in front of him, trying not to cower under the hard stare.

 

“Uh, hi.”

 

The man sighed, “Hi, bait boy. I'm Combeferre.”

 

“Bait boy?”

 

“Don't do that,” Combeferre closed his eyes briefly, like he was fighting the urge to hit him (which was a normal reaction to his stupid questions), “Don't repeat things in questions. It's stupid, it's annoying, and it slows everyone down. You'd do better to just shut up and listen to what I have to say.”

 

“Aye, aye,” he muttered under his breath.

 

“You're going to take this,” he handed the younger man a crowbar, slapping his other hand on the boxes stacked against the wall, “And break up those frozen blocks of herring and ground chicken. You want the mix to stick when you ball it, and if it smells off come to me. We've got a specific blend of bait and one bad batch can fuck up an entire string. You grind it, put it in these cups,” he held up a square cup with a secure-able lid, “You slice two fresh cod down the middle, shove a hook through their mouths, and then latch one box and one fish about a shoulder width apart inside the pot. Got it?”

 

Grantaire nodded quickly, clutching the prybar to his chest. He could see what he had to do in his head butt he knew the moment he climbed in that contraption he would forget every word. _Fuck._

 

“Just break it up right now and spread it out on this table,” he shook the side of a silver table pressed up against the ship's wall, “We don't bottle it up until we're ready to start laying pots.”

 

“Is that my job?”

 

“Until you're told otherwise, kid,” Combeferre adjusted the cap on his head, “Your cousin and I are going to be down in the tanks double-checking for weak spots. Do you think you can handle this or does Marius need to watch over you?”

 

Grantaire glanced over at the fresh-faced youth who was shoving pieces of the deck back in place from a check-up, “I think I can handle it.”  
  


“Good. Get to it.”

 

“And when I'm done?”

 

A brow was raised at him.

 

“I'll just ask around if anyone needs help.”

 

“Good idea.”

 

 

******

 

Grantaire had never slept as soundly as he did that night.

 

He dreamed of the sun being poured into a shot, and woke to the echoing sound of silver rings tapping on glass.

 

********

 

The next day was rather boring. The Coast Guard came aboard and walked them through safety procedures, informing them of what to do if the boat turns over and other emergencies on board. By the time they got to the survival suits, Grantaire knew how to handle a fire and activate a life raft. He knew what an epirb was and where it was housed on the ship. He learned at least ten more ways to die and some of them he doubted were even possible but he wasn't going to argue with the Coast Guard. They were very serious men with a stern set to their brows. He didn't hold it against them, they probably fished stupid “greenhorns” like himself out of the ocean every other day.

 

He hoped the next time he saw them, he as alive enough to thank them.

 

Grantaire pointedly didn't watch his captain don his ridiculously tight survival suit. Even in the unsexiest thing man ever made, the man's legs were serious business.

 

********

 

Grantaire tried his best not to sneer as the crew gathered in the wheelhouse to listen to the blessing of the fleet. A priest read a prayer for their safety over the radio. He was standing at the top of the stairs, hat off but eyes rolling. He wanted to walk past the others and turn it off, explain to them that no one was watching over them but them, but his cousin's eyes were fixated on him.

 

With a scowl, he obediently lowered his head and pretended. With his eyes on the floor, he didn't notice his captain's knowing gaze.

 

******

 

The day they were planning to set sail, Grantaire found out just how formidable his captain was.

 

Courfeyrac was a bundle of nerves as they scarfed down their breakfast before the sun was even fully up, the diner food heavier than he was used to but welcome. Grantaire took his first swig of American coffee and found it too burnt for his taste.

 

“Do they let it smolder in those pots? For the sake of all that is holy,” the artist spat, shoving another piece of bacon into his mouth to cover up the taste, “Am I going to be drinking this swill the entire time?”

 

“No way,” his cousin promised, “Captain Enjolras buys the good stuff from back home. Parisian strength and it goes down smooth. That's all you care about when you're out at sea.”

 

“ 'Captain Enjolras', indeed. What a mouthful.”

 

“He'll take 'sir' or 'captain' just as easily.”

 

Grantaire's pulse picked up as he thought of what else the handsome skipper could take, “What do you call him?”

 

“ 'E',” Courfeyrac bit off a corner of toast, “But only in the wheelhouse when we're talking as equals. Otherwise, he's my boss. He's made me a lot of money and I couldn't disrespect him like that in front of the crew.”

 

He leaned heavily on the counter, voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper, “So what do the others think of me?”

 

“They think you're fresh meat,” Courfeyrac grinned as the younger groaned and dropped his head onto the table, “Come now, R, what did you expect? How many of them have you even spoken to?”

 

“Truly? Combeferre and Marius.”

 

“You'll get to know all of them soon enough. It takes time,” Courfeyrac was fond of that saying, along with _all that matters on the boat is_ , “We're out there for weeks. You get close fast. I consider them my second family. They're all good people with fair humor and strong backs. They've got history. You spend enough time on a rig, you get to know one another.”

 

“Some of them won't even look at me,” he grumbled into the cheap wood of the counter.

 

“You haven't made an effort,” Courfeyrac flicked the pale ear sticking out of his cousin's hair, “Your good looks won't get you anywhere here.”

 

“They haven't got me anywhere before because I conveniently don't have any.”

 

“You're always so harsh on yourself,” the older slurped down the dregs of his own cup, “I just mean that you'll have to prove to them that you're there to stay. You have to show them how good you are.”

 

“I've been trying to do that my entire life and so far no one's bought it,” Grantaire lifted his head, rubbing at the red mark on his forehead, “Do you think they'll like me?”

 

“They'll love you,” Courfeyrac assured him, “Finish up. We're due.”  
  


When they got back to the boat, the younger was shoved under the boat and was put to work sorting food and supplies into all the cabinets and crannies he could find. He got his hands on one of the packages of coffee and found it was a brand he had tasted before. It was the good stuff his cousin had promised. He had just finished shoving it all away when there was a shout from above deck. The thin man in charge of the supplies, Joly, immediately dropped the bag of applies he'd been holding and rushed to the stairs. Grantaire was right on his heels, wondering if they'd somehow managed to destroy the boat before they'd even left the harbor.

 

Up top, he spotted Courfeyrac by the side of the boat ( _starboard, right_ , _whatever_ ) parked next to the dock. He went to his cousin's side and braced his hands on the rail, following his stare to the makeshift metal bridge they used to get on and off the rig. There were a few men he'd never seen gathered there, standing in front of stacks of crates. Blocking them from getting on was none other than the captain, flanked by their two biggest guys – Combeferre and some man called Feuilly he'd never spoken with. They were a stalwart barricade.

 

“What happened?” he asked under his breath, leaning into the other man so as not to be overheard.

  
“We had a lot of buoys destroyed by sea lions on the last trip,” Courfeyrac answered just as softly, “The captain ordered a new set. We were going to put them on nearly an hour ago but they were late.”

 

“So?”

 

“The captain doesn't like to be late. Plus, look,” he pointed at one of the open crates, where what looked to be a blue balloon was poking out, “Imagine trying to see those from a hundred feet or more.”

 

“Did he order them like that?”

 

“What do you think?”

 

“They're useless,” Enjolras pointed out.

 

“You ordered a dozen buoys, we brought you a dozen buoys,” the man had a strong Alaskan tang to his voice that the locals dared call an 'accent', “It's not our fault you don't like the color.”

 

“ _Red_ ,” Enjolras articulated, “I ordered _red_ buoys. Red as in a contrast to the water we're going to be shoving them into. What kind of fisherman wants anything _blue_ in the water?”

 

“What kind of fisherman, indeed,” his buddies laughed at his supposed joke.

 

“I'm not paying for this,” the blonde captain scoffed, flicking his cigarette to the ground and digging his heel into the ember, “I'm not letting this junk on my ship.”

 

“Come on, Frenchman,” the supplier griped with a wave of his thick hand, “You should like blue. It matches your flag.”

 

“Our flags have the same color, jackass,” Feuilly snorted out, sounding surprisingly American.

 

“Who gives a shit what color they are?” the man was clearly starting to lose his patience.

 

“My men! When they try to hook them!” Enjolras was simmering but he was threatening to boil, “I'm not paying one red cent for it.”

 

“You paid with francs and bread and shitty wine, what do we give a fuck?”

 

Enjolras pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes clenched shut as he tried to comprehend the level of stupidity he was dealing with, “The Swiss use the franc now, you _complete_ idiot.”

 

The dealer made a move forward, “Listen here you little pussy-ass, cock-smoking-”

 

Combeferre slapped a hand on the man's chest, shoving him right back and away from their captain, “Don't try it.”

 

Grantaire saw it coming. He'd been in enough bar fights to know when a burly guy like that had reached his limit. There was a smell to them like ozone, a new set to their shoulders, a tick to their jaw. The artist quickly scooped up a piece of brick off the deck, aiming as carefully as he could before chucking it. It struck the dealer in his clenching fist, making him draw back from the punch he was going to deliver.

 

“Oi!” Grantaire shouted, catching all their attentions, “If you take a swing at our captain, you take a swing at us all!”

 

Courfeyrac rose to his full height beside his cousin, silently backing him up.

 

“You stay out of this, you French faggot!” one of the men behind the dealer barked at him, trying to muscle his way past the group with his eyes on the artist. Before the two deckhands could do anything, Enjolras grabbed the interloper by the collar and dragged him into a solid punch. Something crunched under his sure fist and the guy staggered, falling hard onto the dock. Pink leaked through the fingers he had clutched over his face, and after a moment there was a thick gush of blood that had the man sputtering.

 

The dealer and the greenhorn were shocked by the captain's quick attack.

 

“I better have red buoys within the hour or you're going to get a lot more familiar with the taste of this dock,” Enjolras turned sharply, flicking his fingers, “If any garbage gets on board, boys, you have my permission to give it to the sea.”

 

“Yes, sir,” Combeferre's smirk was razor sharp, like he was eager to get his claws into the yanks.

 

Courfeyrac dragged his cousin back below deck before he saw how the rest of the scene play out.

 

“ 'Rac!”

 

“That was stupid and reckless,” his cousin scolded him quickly before he broke into a smile, “And really cool. I think you impressed Enjolras for a second.”

 

“A whole second?” Grantaire replied flippantly, elbowing the other in the side, “What a shock. Quick, I'm fainting, grab me a couch!”

 

But on the inside he was glowing. A second of pride felt like a balm on his long bruised and battered soul. A band-aid, a brief fix, but enough to fuel him back to the galley to stock and sort.

 

******

 

When he came back up, there were shining new red buoys ready to be hooked onto the pots.

 

********

 

They set sail just before noon, all hands still busy coiling and pushing and sorting out the deck. They left the dock without anymore pomp and circumstance than a shout and the deep bellow of the horn.

 

Sweat was pouring down Grantaire's neck. His fingers ached, pangs were going down his back, and he was pretty sure he'd pulled his shoulder out of its socket trying to push the sorting table aside by himself. Hundreds of pounds did not slide well, even on a slick deck. He was already certain he was going to twist his ankles trying to get from one end of the boat to the other, the sea was constantly splashing and flowing through the top deck. If something wasn't gritty, it was wet.

 

And the artist was loving every moment of it.

 

Grantaire pulled off his solid red beanie, shaking his hair free before settling his hands on the port side. He tilted his head up toward the sun, taking big lungfuls of the ocean air. The wind dried his sweat, leaving him refreshed. The _Liberté_ was jogging away from Dutch Harbor and the little town was growing smaller, soon enough they'd be out to open sea. The thought of being surrounded completely by water was a stimulating one. The anticipation had his stomach bottomed out in the best way.

 

The rig jumped and rocked up, a splash catching him right in the face. He laughed, wiping his eyes and shaking himself to cast off heavy drops.

 

When he licked his lips, he tasted true sea salt.

 

******

 

Every few minutes or so, Enjolras would tear his eyes away from his set up of screens and the scatter of papers on his desk to check on the deck. The crew kept busy and their face was fine so he left them to it, trusting Combeferre to keep everyone on task. He was still unsure where exactly he was was going to lay his his one-fifty pot string and every minute out at sea dialed his nerves up just one notch further.

 

They were a couple miles out when he looked up to find their greenhorn braced against the side, dark hair getting whipped around his pale face. The sea was rather calm this close to shore so he wasn't worried about the idiot getting swept away but it was a new sight on his rig. From here he couldn't decipher the young man's expression.

 

Intrigued, Enjolras took up the mic to the intercom mounted to the wall by the bait table. He didn't want to announce to the deck that he was (maybe) staring at their newest member.

 

“ 'Feyrac?” he called down, eyes still glued to the ravenette as he was splashed in the face. The young man drew away but not far, his hand rubbing over his soaked face.

 

“ _Yes?_ ” came after a few moments.

 

“What's your baby cousin doing?” Enjolras inquired, “Is he sick already?”

 

Courfeyrac's warm laugh came over the speaker, “ _No, sir. He loves the sea but he hasn't been on a boat since he left home. I think he's greeting her again and apologizing for being gone so long._ ”

 

Enjolras laughed to himself but quickly smothered up the sound, “The Mediterranean didn't forgive him?”

 

“ _It's been a long time since he's let himself enjoy something._ ”

 

The confession was soft, even across the rough system.

 

Enjolras flicked off the mic, frowning as he watched the boy slide his hat back on and start toward the hydraulics where Feuilly was checking the hoses. He must've shouted an order because the greenhorn grabbed a toolbox out of a crate and hurried it over to him.

 

The blonde shook off the strange feeling that had settled over him and put the mic back, turning his eyes back to the log book in front of him. He'd set it up then get back to finding a route. At the moment, he needed the busywork.

 

********

 

“Test pots?” Grantaire echoed, following his cousin to the stacks.

 

“It means we'll be dropping two or three pots in one location, go a few miles, then drop a few more. You do this between ten to fifty miles,” Courfeyrac started climbing, their deck boss already waiting at the top, “Wait here. We're going to loosen these up and then we'll all get strapped up in the rest of our gear.”

 

“Does that mean he doesn't know where the crab are?” Grantaire watched the man go, moving quicker than he thought he could across net and metal bars.

 

“He's just feeling out the sea,” Courfeyrac hauled himself over the side and onto the flat top, “She's fickle and the crab roam in packs. It's just a precaution, dear cousin, nothing to worry about!”

 

Grantaire frowned and crossed his arms over his chest, fingers itching to claw into the strong crisscross of the pot-wall. With the constant sway of the boat (which he was still getting used to) it was probably a little more complicated to climb than a chain link fence. He wanted to test his strength on it but Combeferre had distinctly told his cousin to keep him off it. At least for now.

 

Barely four hours out at sea and he was already being told to keep his hands off the best toys, including their Adonis of a captain.

 

There was a commotion up there and he could hear the two men shouting.

 

“The chain won't give!”

 

“Then where the hell's the second fastener?”

 

It was his cousin who gave a growl of frustration, “Where the hell else do you think? On the side!”

 

“Are you kidding me?” Combeferre appeared on the edge, dropped to one knee as he peered over the deck, “Who fastened the starboard pots?”

 

There was no answer.

 

“Who the fuck put the chain on backwards!” the blonde shouted, “Who thought it was a good idea to put the backup fastener on so it faced the fucking sea? I want an answer! _Now_!”

 

It was Marius's hand who went up.

 

“Fuck!” Combeferre got up, kicking at the edge of a pot, “Get a life vest on and get up here! You put it over there, you're crawling over the side to get it open. Move, kid!”

 

“I'm not hanging off the side!” Marius protested, a genuine look of fear coming over his face.

 

Grantaire sprang at the opportunity, already heading over to where the stack of pots kissed the starboard ledge. There were a few shouts from the others but they were swallowed up by the roar of the sea, and with just a spare second to compose himself he was he up. He kept his fingers dug deeply into the webbing, his slim-fitting gloves fitting easily between the diamond spaces. His feet were small enough to fit perfectly on the edges of the pots, and with that leverage he climbed sideways in search for the clasp.

 

******

 

In the wheelhouse, Enjolras was just getting back from taking a leak. He went to his chair, picked up his coffee, and took a long drink. He was in the middle of swallowing when he saw a man on the side of the pots, brow furrowing up. The men knew he liked to be told when one of them got into a position like that. He always watched, always monitored the waves, just to make sure it was the safest situation they could be in. He set the cup aside and grabbed the intercom mic, ready to scold what looked like Courfeyrac, and then he realized the man on the side had a stupid neon red hat on and the lack of something very important.

 

The mic dropped, whining faintly as it swung on it's chord. The wheelhouse door slammed.

 

******

 

Grantaire popped the latch, still grinning even when a wave crashed against his back. It shook him against the netting but his grip never faltered. Someone up top hauled the heavy-duty chain up, finally freeing the pots. He was just as careful getting back but he couldn't help swinging around the side with a triumphant yell, arms held high above his head.

 

“Did you see that? That was so awesome!” Grantaire's arms fell when he saw his skipper making a beeline toward him, “Oh shit.”

 

Enjolras grabbed him by his suspender strap, dragging him across the deck and slamming him against the wall of the supply housing. Grantaire winced, those heavy hands coming up to fist in his collar and haul him up so far he had to strain on the tips of his toes just to stay standing. Enjolras looked enraged and gorgeous, pearly white teeth flashing in an feral display of dominance.

 

“Are you insane?” the skipper demanded, knuckles digging into the younger man's neck, “You don't go out on the stack. _Period_. Do you have a death wish? I'm not going to play host to some artist's whim of suffering for their muses! I won't have it! Not on my boat!”

 

The swell of Grantaire's throat bobbed, the breath stolen from his lungs by the sheer intensity the other was giving off.

 

“There are rules here,” Enjolras shook him like a wayward pup, “If both your feet aren't on the deck, you have to have a life jacket on if you want even a chance of us scooping you out of the water. And you only get on the stack if _I'm_ watching. I had no warning, no notice, and no idea that our new brat was hanging off the side without so much as an oil slick on! One rogue wave and you're gone.”

 

“I had a good grip, and the water was-”

 

Grantaire was cut off by a forearm in his throat, the captain pinning him so hard to the wall he let out a strangled gasp. The pressure was enough to remind him who was in charge and make him a little dizzy, but light enough to have his cock swelling in his shorts just from the small contact and proximity.

 

“You. Will. Die.” Enjolras's words were curt and they stung, “I'm not going to let that happen but you need to obey the laws I've put down. Do you understand me, boy?”

 

He swallowed a few times just to feel the blonde's muscle against his neck, unable to speak.

 

******

 

Enjolras let the kid go, taking a step back. Without warning, Grantaire slid down the wall onto his ass with legs starfished out in front of him. The boy's head fell back, revealing wide eyes that were colored almost the same shade as his own. He saw that gaze everyday in the mirror, though he knew his own held more aggression and authority than the soft one aimed at him right now. A gloved hand rose up and the neck he'd just been pressing was touched with the tips of black fingers, the red mark stroked over almost reverently.

 

“Yes, sir,” the little artist rasped out, one finger pressing down hard in the hollow of his throat.

 

“Good,” Enjolras started back toward the boathouse, grabbing Combeferre by the nape of the neck when he came up to him with a rushed explanation. The taller blonde snapped his mouth shut as he was held, a finger held up warningly.

 

“You,” the captain reigned himself in enough to keep from shouting, “You and 'Feyrac each keep one eye on him. This little shit is getting back home in one piece. I don't care what you have to chain him to, just see it done! Am I clear?”

 

“Yes, sir,” Combeferre's utterance was less arousing and it helped cool his temper.

 

“If that kid goes overboard, you'll owe Courfeyrac a thousand dollars every trip in repentance,” Enjolras lowered his voice and patted the man's shoulder, getting a faint smile out of him, “Just watch a little closer.”

 

“He was fast.”

 

“I believe you,” Enjolras stared toward the chairs, throwing an order over his shoulder, “Back to work!”

 

******

 

Back in the safety of his wheelhouse, Enjolras collapsed in his chair. There was a new tightness to his pants and he rubbed his palm over it, hoping to ease the ache but only ramping it up further. He bit down on his lip, swallowing a moan. That little brat got his adrenaline going, making him think he was going to lose a man. Then he had the nerve to look up at him like that, like he was some great dealer of punishment (he didn't dare compare himself to God, that would be pushing it, but it was close). There had been something more than the usual respect in his eyes, something deeper than that. The way he'd looked up at him, the closeness of it all, it had gone straight to his cock.

 

No one had ever gotten a reaction like this out of him. At least, never this quickly. Any other time he would just jerk off with a blank mind, satisfy his body and then put the residual frustration into his log books. But this time those blue eyes wouldn't leave his mind. That rough little _Yes, sir_ had put fire in his blood in more ways than one.

 

And that terrified him.

* * *

**If you're here, you'd be home now...**

**Just joking. If you'd like to see the gifset,[check this out](http://emono-omae.tumblr.com/post/64532450907/if-that-kid-goes-overboard-youll-owe-courfeyrac)**

 

 

 

 


	3. The Crew

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire gets an insight into everyone. Meet the crew!

For some reason or another, his move had been perceived as “ballsy” and his reputation quickly became rather wild. Grantaire had never been the cool kid before and it was kind of exhilarating. It got him watched more by the deck boss but it came with an upside that he hadn't expected.

 

The crew started talking to him.

 

******

 

The first was a double shock. One, because he'd been asked a question instead of given an order.

 

“What kind of artist are you?”

 

Second, because that was clearly a female voice.

 

One of the deckhands was a woman. She was short with beautifully dark skin and eyes as black as a starless sky, one strand of thick raven hair peeking out of her cap. There was some weather on her face but she was young and very pretty, a subject he would love to sketch among the architecture of Paris herself.

 

She rolled her eyes when she saw him staring, “I said: What kind of artist are you? What do you do?”  


“I paint and sketch,” Grantaire finally got his jaw off the ground, “Has anyone ever told you you're bone structure is amazing? You would look striking painted in a kind of Baroque style.”

 

The woman drew back, gloved fingers coming up to her cheeks while her eyes got comically wide, “I'm – I'm – is that a come on?”

 

“No, it's the truth,” Grantaire hurried, “I didn't mean to offend you. I've just never seen your face before and it kind of struck me.”

 

“Oh, sorry,” she slowly went back to putting on the straps that would keep the water out of her gloves and from going up her jacket sleeve, “I'm just not used to... _that_.”

 

“What?” he chuckled, “Compliments?”

 

“Yeah,” she ducked her head, the bill of her cap easily hiding her face, “Either they come off crude or they don't come off at all. I'm not used to simple ones, I guess.”

 

“Don't let it bother you,” Grantaire shrugged easily, “You're pretty. And I saw you throwing around that hundred pound coil earlier. You're quite something. To be fair, I thought you were a guy at first.”

 

Her teeth were bright against her dark rose lips, “I get that a lot.”

 

He held out his herring and ground chicken covered hand, “I'm Grantaire.”

 

She shook it without hesitation, “Éponine.”

 

Éponine was the most interesting girl he was sure he'd ever meet. She grew up in a poor family with three older brothers and one younger, all living in a one story with her parents not far from Cannes. She'd developed tough skin at an early age and a talent for fishing. She'd gone to the dock a lot to get away from her questionably criminal parents, though she didn't share exactly what they did. From the way she shied away big gestures, he could only assume they'd slapped her around. It broke his heart because Éponine was such a bright girl with a real spark in her, strength seemingly endless as she picked up whatever was needed and hefted it like bags of flour. From buoys to rope, it didn't seem to bother her and she never complained.

 

The only time she threw a tantrum was when one of the guys pushed the 'women on board are bad luck' joke too far. She'd shoved the sorting table so hard it had taken a straight shot to port, the edges knocking off the boat and bouncing back. She'd declared that the next person to say she was bad luck was going to be sharing her gender with the help of her gutting knife.

 

Grantaire grew half in love with her spirit and couldn't help but try to catch glimpses of her fine figure below deck when they were in more casual clothes. But she always caught him and she never let him get away with it. She had the meanest pinches and his ass was black and blue by the end of the first week. One bruise for each blatant ogling. He called it fair. They were fast friends and soon he was attached to her hip.

 

Combeferre told him how to bait the pots but Éponine showed him, throwing herself into the cages the moment they were open and teaching him the proper way. He didn't let her go alone and for the first seven pots or so they were side by side within the net, her doing one side so he could mimic it perfectly. She showed him how to best cut the cod, which spot on their mouths would hold, and she didn't mind getting dirty. After baiting she would throw hundreds of pounds of coil in, and together they would tie off the doors.

 

They became fast friends and an even faster team.

 

“If you were a guy, I'd ask you to marry me,” Grantaire proclaimed one day as she handed him a hardy bowl of stew.

 

She'd pinched his cheek, a much lighter touch than the ones he'd gotten elsewhere, “That's what they made strap-on's for.”

 

“My love!” he'd bellowed, throwing himself at her feet to the sound of the others laughter.

 

It was all in good fun though because, as he'd quickly learned, she was madly in love with the oblivious Marius. He'd questioned her about her tenderness for the pale youth but she wouldn't say anything on it. Nothing except the obvious.

 

“Trust me, I've tried. But I'm a boy to him,” Éponine jammed her knife needlessly into the eye of a mangled cod, the two of them bent over the bait table together, “And we're friends.”

 

Grantaire couldn't understand, “Isn't it maddening? Having him so close?”

 

“If I can't share a life with him, I'm content to share a job,” she was half-lying but her smile was genuine, “He's so sweet...and sometimes, I think, being around the one you love is enough.”

 

“Do you stay because of him?” he hadn't meant to ask but it had come out regardless.

 

“I'm not sure,” Eponine's smile had only failed for a second, “The money's a good incentive. No faster way into a girl's shorts than a big pile of that awful smelling American treasure.”

 

“Are you talking about their money or the crab?”

 

She'd laughed so hard and so long that they'd both gotten yelled at by Combeferre.

 

Unfortunately for their deck boss, that only made her bray louder.

 

******

 

Ah, their deck boss. Combeferre was a man who knew exactly what to do and exactly when to do it. He'd been on the boat the longest and he knew how to soothe Enjolras's temper when it flared. He was second in command and if you had an issue to take to the captain, you went through his first mate to do it. Though born and raised in the city of Bordeaux, his grandparents had both been from Sweden and it showed in his flaxen hair and bright azure eyes. He was strongly built but he was obviously educated, when he spoke in their native tongue the high-class could almost be tasted in the air.

 

Grantaire speculated that his parents were wealthy and over a quick lunch the older man admitted that he went to the _Université Pierre-et-Marie-Curie_. His parents had paid out for a philosophy degree that he only used to outwit idiots and muse about in cafes. He'd met Enjolras there and the two had grown close, they'd done a lot of political rallies and protests together while there.

 

“Our captain's a political agent?” Grantaire had interrupted.

 

Combeferre had actually grinned, his boss persona gone under the light of a half hour break in tossing pots, “You have no idea.”

 

Two years after they'd parted ways he'd gotten a phone call. Enjolras needed someone he could trust to help him run a fishing boat. After one year on deck, he'd been hooked. This was his fifth year, his second as deck boss. The guys respected him almost as much as the captain. When he wasn't giving orders topside, he was pretty soft spoken and his laugh was nice to listen to.

 

Grantaire had made it his personal mission to get him to laugh as much as possible.

 

******

 

The third in command was a tie between his own cousin and Feuilly, a dark haired man with thick sideburns and kind eyes. His hands were thick and scarred up, a piece of his pinky missing from an accident his first year on board a ship. He didn't talk a lot while they were working but he was friendly enough down below. He was the most knowledgeable of the _Liberté_ 's guts. He was their engineer and damn good with those calloused hands.

 

Grantaire learned secondhand that he was an orphan from a nameless town along the Seine river. He'd grown up hard, harder than Éponine even, and had taught himself everything. Including finding the identity of his Polish birth mother. He'd learned everything he could about the country in order to feel closer to her but he'd never actively sought her out.

 

“The idea of her is better,” Feuilly had shrugged, up to his elbows in grease down in the engine room, “Now hand me that wrench.”

 

He'd dropped out of high school early to go to the city and get a job as a mechanic, quickly developing an interest that went from cars to RV's to semi-trucks and eventually to boats. He was fascinated with how things worked, and he knew almost as much about boats as he did about his true motherland.

 

Feuilly was the oldest out of all of them, nearly thirty-one. He'd worked on a crab boat before solely as an engineer, he knew the Bering Sea a little better than Combeferre but he never asserted his opinion. It was always asked, but never did he push it.

 

Enjolras had found him by chance.

 

“So this piece of shit boat, the _Marion_ , had me employed for a season. I go, I do my job, but for some reason the captain doesn't like how I do my job. I never botched it, not once. But on a unloading trip he left me behind. I can't make this up! This bastard left me standing on the dock with my stuff thrown off the boat,” Feuilly told the story with great passion during a cigarette break, “So I'm standing there in the middle of opie season-”

 

“What's an opie?” Grantaire butted in, getting a jab in the arm from Éponine.

 

“They're smaller crap, they're next season,” Feuilly waved him off, “So I'm standing there, gaping, freezing, and have no idea what to do. I didn't have enough money to stay anywhere for the rest of the season and I sure as hell didn't want to start asking for charity at the harbor. Then this big red boat pulls up, anchors down right in front of me, and this guy I've never seen before comes out of the wheelhouse.”

 

“There were a couple hundred boats back then,” Marius supplied, struggling to light his zippo, “Not like now. Rationalization took them out.”

 

“I bet it took the _Marion_ with it,” Feuilly scoffed, “This blonde guy walks out, leans on the railing, and starts eying me. To be honest, I thought he was some sort of prostitute running a cathouse-boat...thing.”

 

“Feuilly!” Combeferre burst out laughing, Courfeyrac coughing beside him from where he'd choked on his cigarette.

 

“It's his own fault!” the engineer laughed with him, “He was wearing _incredibly_ tight jeans and looked like a _Glamour_ model, what was I supposed to think? All the captains out here look like bears wearing human skins!”

 

Marius was on his knees he was laughing so hard, hat falling off to show off his shock of ginger-blonde hair.

 

“This model walks out, starts staring at me. And I go, 'I'm not interested'. He gives me that look,” Feuilly tried to contort his broad features into their captain's signature judging expression but it just looked ridiculous, “He asks me what I'm doing, I tell him the truth. He kind of looks out where the _Marion_ 's in the distance and then looks back at me. He asks me what I am and I tell him I'm mainly an engineer. He says he has a few problems with his engine and I was welcome aboard for the rest of the season but, get this, only if I was okay with working with a bunch of Frenchman.”

 

Grantaire puffed out a great cloud of smoke, chuckling.

 

“I told him, 'But I'm French!',” Feuilly stood up, throwing out his arms as he got caught up in it, “He looked me up and down and said I wasn't, I couldn't be. I sounded like a native!”

 

The engineer was giddy, they were on their twentieth hour of no sleep, “I shouted at him in French that I'd been living in Anchorage for a year, what did he expect? He grilled me about my parentage and then told me to get my ass on board.”

 

Grantaire had never known a man to work as hard as Feuilly and after showing him that he wasn't above learning anything he could about the boat's engine, he could call them tentative friends.

 

******

 

The only one who didn't warm up to him right away was Joly. But after he learned a little about the man, he wasn't surprised. Joly was a good guy with a big, nervous heart. He suffered from sometimes crippling anxiety and type one diabetes, an insulin pumped stuffed deep into his rain gear.

 

Enjolras had him in charge of stock, hydraulics, and health. He was a medical graduate who hadn't the stomach to take his certification to a hospital. He'd met Éponine at a clinic while he was still in school and after hopelessly pursuing her, they'd become friends and had stayed in touch. When she'd decided to try and make her way into the lucrative business of crab fishing, he'd gone with her on impulse just to make sure she didn't get hurt.

 

Enjolras had needed a doctor on the ship and, as a pair with the strongest woman he'd ever met, was hired aboard only two weeks after arriving in Alaska.

 

Despite hating everything about crab fishing, Joly had an unwavering bond of loyalty toward their captain. Enjolras had hired Éponine after she'd been rejected from almost thirty other ships. He'd taken a chance of bad luck to hire his friend and he'd been more than grateful to see her flourish. He hated the lack of sleep, the lack of food, and the hard conditions they were put under. But every season for nearly three years he'd come back, hoping each time that Enjolras didn't get wise and fire him.

 

Everyone knew that they were one man over stock but their captain wanted the doctor aboard, nerves and all.

 

Grantaire only officially met him after an almost-accident on board. He was cutting into a cod when the knife slipped and clattered to the deck. Before he could bend down and get it, Joly was on him. Grabbed his hands, holding them out, examining them while asking him question after question. Did he feel any pain? Was he bleeding? Was he woozy? When was the last time he ate?

 

“I'm fine,” Grantaire promised, spinning around and holding up his arm, “See? No cuts.”

 

“Oh thank God, I thought you'd torn your wrist out,” Joly sighed, pushing back his hat.

 

“That's kind of extreme.”

 

“It happens more than you think!”

 

That was kind of Joly's catchphrase. Getting crushed by a pot, blood clots forming in their legs, losing their fingers, crab taking your eye out – _happens more than you think_. He may have only been twenty-four, the same fresh age as Éponine, but he knew how to take care of someone. He had at least four med kits stashed around the boat along with the huge designated one, and two mini ones in his pockets. Also hidden in his gear were snacks. Mostly to keep his sugar in check, but also to sneak to the crew members every five hours or so. Enjolras would sometimes bark at him to keep his mind on his work, but Joly always made sure the edge off their hunger.

 

Not enough to satisfy them, but enough to keep their health up.

 

As Marius laid their meals in front of them, Joly made sure to hand each of them a vitamin to take with it. He also had a stash of chewable ones for when they were on deck.

 

Enjolras may have signed their checks, Combeferre may have kept them in line, but Joly was the one who kept them all going.

 

******

 

The greenhorn before him, Eponine's love, was Marius. He was a wide-eyed, bushy-tailed guy only two years older than Grantaire himself. He had freckles from the tips of his ears to the ends of his fingers, fair skinned despite the constant wash of sun. He was pure Parisian, born and raised, and had the thickest accent out of all of them. He'd grown up with Enjolras, the two of them life long friends.

 

Marius had graduated college with a lack of purpose and guilt hanging on his shoulders. He'd been a trustfund baby, he'd been handed everything his entire life, and he'd begged his best friend to give him a chance to learn something useful. He'd only been on a year but already the crew loved him and his work ethic. He was pleasant and he fast on deck, taking to his sea legs faster than anyone had ever seen.

 

Free of his greenhorn status, he took up new tasks like running crab to further tanks and jumping into the pots while the rest of the crew were sorting crab on the table. He had a gentle touch and he managed to pluck free the little crustaceans that were stuck in the net without ripping off their legs. Grantaire didn't understand why he bothered at first but Éponine explained to him in the pot that every crab was worth about two or three dollars, and that after a while it added up.

 

“Marius earns us fifty more dollars a trip. It's worth it.”  


But Marius's most important job, at least what the Parisian boy declared it to be, was cooking. He'd go down about an hour before their meal break and whip them up something filling and warm. He made stews, savory roasts, and as much variety as he could rustle up. With his secret flat of spices he kept hidden in the back of the pantry, he managed to grill/stew/bake/fry them up something worth the ten hour streaks of snacks and sea air.

 

Grantaire quickly found out that Enjolras babied him even though the boy was only five years younger than him. Marius hated it and often huffed his way up to the wheelhouse after his friend had called him to come in, knowing that his captain wanted to offer him a break he wasn't going to give to the others. To the kid's credit, he almost always refused.

 

Every odd job was handed over to the kid and Marius took it with a grin, just happy to help.

 

It took a few days for him to really decide, but in the end he decided he liked Marius.

 

******

 

They were a good group of people. Lively, passionate, and all of them wanted to be there.

 

Still, he was their greenhorn and therefore their whipping boy.

 

********

 

And then there was Enjolras. Their captain, their leader, their employer. The crew was the life blood of the _Liberté_ , and Feuilly may have arguably been her heart, but Enjolras was the brain. In the first week Grantaire learned how attentive their skipper was, how meticulous. He poured over dozens of maps, some older than him, and constantly danced form one machine to the next. He had few allies in the fleet so he had to do the work of three partner boats, relying on familial maps and migration reports to get them where they needed to go.

 

Enjolras was beautiful but the mind inside of him was endlessly fascinating. When he had a moment to think, Grantaire just marveled over how intelligent their captain was. Though he was still a wealth of mystery, every time he opened his mouth to speak the greedy artist drank up every word. He couldn't find out much from the others without being obvious so he took what little detail he could and locked it up tight.

 

One day, Joly was getting so shaky that he had to step away from the hydraulics. He refused any help and shoved everyone away who tried to help him. Enjolras had practically kicked down the wheelhouse door and had romped down the stairs, shouting in some smooth language that sounded like butter to his ears. He was stunned by the language and didn't really remember what happened after, but by the time Combeferre elbowed him in the side the whole thing was over and Joly was back under.

 

Later, he asked Éponine what that was.

 

“It's Norwegian,” Éponine shoved a plate of sausage in his hands, “His father has thick roots in Norway that got back who knows how long.”

 

“I heard his dad was from an old family that's been linked with the Vikings,” Courfeyrac added, shoving a forkful of eggs into his mouth, “He owns the _Frihet_ , you know? It's one of the bigger crab fishing boats. It's out there right now.”

 

“Enjolras?”

 

“No, his dad,” the reply was kind of muffled, “Fishing has been on that side of the family for generations. They're a big name in this industry. They've got old, crab money.”

 

“Crab money,” Marius laughed, though he wasn't disagreeing.

 

Combeferre checked the hall both ways, making sure their captain wasn't in earshot, “His father's fine and all but it's his mother who's the most interesting.”

 

Grantaire leaned over the table, “Tell me.”

 

“No!” Marius protested, but it was light, “Don't bring that up. If Enj finds out-”  


“Shut up and he won't,” Éponine shoved the boy good-naturedly, nearly making him fall into the stew pot, “What is it about his mom?”

 

“She's a third cousin in the Bourbon family,” for the first time, Combeferre seemed positively youthful in his gossip, “By blood, if you can believe it.”

 

A lot of them gaped but Grantaire was left in the dark.

 

“ _Bourbon_?”

 

“Come on! Where have you been? Is Agde under a rock?” Combeferre shoved his head down playfully, “The Bourbons? The unofficial royal family? They're not legally in charge anymore but they take their genealogy very seriously.”

 

He couldn't believe it, “No!”

 

“Yes,” Marius moaned, like he'd been threw this a dozen times before, “But don't tell him you know that!”

 

“Why not?”

 

“His mother isn't really...in the picture,” Courfeyrac made a face, voice down to a whisper, “She left when he was really young. But he has this really fat trust fund from her and he used it to fix this boat up.”

 

“He takes his heritage very seriously,” Feuilly put forth, “Both sides.”

 

Grantaire couldn't stop himself from frowning, “So he's some kind of freedom fighter?”

 

“That's a way of putting it,” Éponine nodded along, “I went to one earlier this year. He's all about equal rights and world peace. I thought it was endearing.”

 

“So he fights against everything his maternal side has worked so hard to build up?” he scrunched up his nose, “Talk about bad blood.”

 

Marius suddenly cleared his throat, an unspoken signal that the captain was coming. Enjolras entered the galley to a sea of carefully blank faces. After some brief questioning, he grabbed his coffee and let it go.

 

******

 

That night, Grantaire fell headfirst into an all encompassing dream of a Norwegian _dauphin_ seated upon a silver throne. Crimson silk over tan flesh, a smirk carving deep lines into a handsome face as eyes the color of the Bering sea seared marks into his flesh. Long legs were crossed over one another, skin-tight boots laced up them to the knee. They were black and had a hundred eyelets with thick laces pulled through them, heavy soles weighing them down.

 

 _Down, boy_.

 

Grantaire was shaken awake by his deck boss, telling him his break was over.

 

Even out on deck with the sea in his face and the ache in his legs threatening to take them out from under him, he could still taste leather on the back of his tongue.

* * *

**Want to see everyone? Want to see the crew?[Here they are](http://emono-omae.tumblr.com/post/64534883443/they-were-a-good-group-of-people-lively), the scamps. If there's anything you'd like to see, any requests in-fic, just let me know.**

 


	4. Food and Anxiety

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire gives into the anxiety that seems to always lurk around him.

The first fifteenth hour mark hit him like a ton of bricks. Baiting was more work than he'd done in years. Slaving over a painting for twenty-four hours was nothing compared to this. He hurt all over, his joints threatened to crack with every hour that went by and his lungs felt like they were encrusted with salt. If he hadn't been so exhausted he wouldn't have even cared but he'd passed by tired almost three hours ago.

 

His body had slipped into a true zombie mode and soon he was just getting through the motions. He threw himself into pot after pot and never complained. He wouldn't be _that_ guy on the boat. Courfeyrac had told him in no uncertain terms that _those_ guys never lasted. Fisherman hated bitching greenhorns.

 

Grantaire was almost at the bait table when hie knee gave out, sending him right into the side. He managed to grab the table at the last second to save his face but not his pride. He prayed no one saw it but like most of his prayers it went unanswered.

 

“Okay, that's enough for you,” Éponine grabbed him around the waist, curling her fingers around his belt to haul him toward the supply room. He tried to protest but she wasn't listening. She shoved him back towards the corner and forced him to sit down.

 

“Stop it, 'Ponine, I said I'm fine!”

 

“Oh shut up, you idiot,” Éponine dragged his hood over his eyes, pushing it down to nearly cover his face, “Take an hour. I'll cover for you.”

 

“But...bu...” Grantaire trailed off, the edge of the hood blocking out the light. In the shadow his friend had created, he fell asleep.

 

******

 

Grantaire took a bite of the sandwich Marius had shoved in front of him and drew back, looking at it through squinted eyes. His tongue poked at the corner of his mouth, digging into his palette, wincing when he realized it wasn't the food.

 

“Everything tastes like salt and fish,” he declared, getting a few chuckles while they shoveled down their own food, “Is that normal?”

 

“You get used to it,” Éponine promised, “Just don't lick your hand.”

 

Taking it as a challenge, he swiped his tongue across his knuckles. He cringed and made some kind of yelp, sticking his tongue out like a dog so he could scrub a napkin over it. Feuilly pounded his fist on the table, giving a small roar.

 

“I taste like a cod!” Grantaire complained, “How long does it stay like that?”

 

“Forever,” Courfeyrac swore.

 

“I'll never get laid again.”

 

“Like you were doing so well before,” Courfeyrac chuckled, pushing a button he didn't know existed. Éponine saw it though, and she glanced between the cousins to see if it was done purposefully.

 

Grantaire just put on a smile and dug into his food, quieting down. He only looked up when he felt a hand lay across his back, skimming his spine. Éponine was smiling at him, a crooked one that made her cheek swell like an adorable squirrel. His own grin became a little more sincere and he leaned into it, taking the pressure as it was meant to be. A comfort.

 

******

 

They had a few short minutes between pots and most of them took it either to eat or smoke.

 

Grantaire ducked into the supply room to search Joly's hanging, watertight bag. It was usually packed with packets of nuts and other snacks and his stomach was growling. He was elbow deep inside it when he caught sight of the two men taking refuge deep within the room. Their hoods were shucked and their heads were together. It was their deck boss and his cousin, talking quietly to one another.

 

Combeferre pulled out a pack and plucked out two cigarettes along with a lighter. His cousin laughed at something Grantaire couldn't hear and took the offered stick, putting it between his lips. Combeferre flicked on the lighter and cupped the flame, forgoing lighting his own to lean in and offer it to the younger man.

 

Surprise parting his lips, Grantaire watched Courfeyrac grab the man's bare wrist and drag it closer. Dark curls almost threaded through whey locks as he sucked in the flame, smoke flowing between them as their heads almost touched

 

It was just a few seconds but the way Combeferre watched his cousin was wanting, full of longing.

 

Grantaire knew a hungry man when he saw him.

 

********

 

“Grantaire.”

 

“Piss off, I'm busy,” Grantaire shoved the older man away, going back to grinding down more blocks of frozen herring. He hadn't been paying attention and they were running dangerously low on bait.

 

“You need to eat,” Joly scolded.

 

“We've got six more pots to drop, I can get through it,” he promised, though his stomach was scrunching in on itself beneath his skin.

 

“You need a real meal,” the man's eyes were serious, “You can't live on a few meal bars. You're fucking your sugar up.”

 

“I don't need anything,” but Grantaire had spent their last thirty minute food break sleeping and he was feeling it. Joly frowned at him before he disappeared, leaving deck without a word otherwise. The crew wordlessly shifted rotation, Combeferre taking over hydraulics and Éponine moving to pot duty so the artist had to swing the heavy coils into the pots along with the pair (her usual job).

 

Two pots later, the loudspeaker crackle to life.

 

“ _Grantaire,_ ” Enjolras's voice broke over the deck rather clearly, “ _I want to see you up here._ ”

 

 _Fuck_ , he abandoned the bait table, making his way toward the steps. He passed the doctor, his glare replaced with a look of self-satisfaction. The ravenette rushed past him, yanking open the door to the wheelhouse and stepping in.

 

It was warm and smelled of laundry detergent, the air vent from the dryers feeding into the L-shaped room. There was a long counter along the wall dotted with three decks, windows above it, the deck clearly visible through them. A few feet from door was the staircase that led below deck, and around the that corner was the captain's chair and set up. He slowly walked toward the man, hands busy pushing back his hood.

 

Enjolras hadn't made any indication that he knew he had walked in. There was a heaping plate of food in front of the chair closest to him, books had been pushed aside to make room for it.

 

He swallowed nervously, “Captain?”

 

“Sit,” the blonde's finger flew over a keyboard as he seemed to mark where they were dropping their pots, “Eat.”

 

That couldn't be right, “Sir?”

 

“Did I stutter?”

 

Grantaire jumped to obey, though he was careful when sitting down in the mounted chair. He unhitched the latches of his securing sleeves, laying his gloves down where they wouldn't get anything wet before picking up the utensil that had been left for him. He'd swallowed two bites of fluffy eggs when he started shaking, fork clattering loudly against the plate as he started to really shovel it down. The rush of nutrients made him light-headed.

 

“Well,” Enjolras leaned back in his chair, still watching the others go about dropping another pot, “I hope you've learned to listen to Joly more carefully.”

 

“I'm sorry, sir,” Grantaire took a few breaths between bites, “I just wanted to finish.”

 

“I admire your enthusiasm, I do, but Joly already knows your limits better than you do,” he could feel his captain's piercing stare cutting into his shoulder, “You want to do your best, don't you?”

 

Grantaire froze, staring down at his food with his fork mid-air. There was a flicker of pleasure low in his gut, those words bringing back the faint memory of the princely blonde and his tight boots. This whole situation – being fed, getting scolded, holding authority over him – was pushing all his buttons. Enjolras had no idea what kind of territory he was stepping into.

 

He wet his lower lip, catching a bit of the warm spice that had been added to his food, “I...I want to be good.”

 

“Then be good and listen to who I tell you to listen to,” the skipper's voice was like silk over steel, hiding his edge of concern over a patronizing tone, “Finish that and then get back out there.”

 

Grantaire scarfed down every morsel that he could, feeling his strength return with every mouthful. Once the plate was clear, he swiped his thumb across the plastic and picked up a few remaining droplets of juice. He lapped them up, savoring the last minute of warmth and content. He started strapping on his gloves again, feet taking him to the door that led right out onto the deck.

 

There was a flick of a lighter, “Grantaire?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“Slow down a few steps,” his captain took the first drag off a fresh cigarette, “This is the end of your first week. You have plenty of time to prove yourself to me.”

 

Grantaire couldn't swallow down the little _oh_ in time, releasing the soft sound into the air.

 

Yes, he would prove himself to Enjolras, or die trying.

 

********

 

Courfeyrac was called up to the wheelhouse but his cousin thought nothing of it.

 

Grantaire was wedged under the sorting table, shoulder-to-shoulder with Éponine as she tested the bolts. She'd been sure that something had come loose and she wanted to find out what it was, plus teach the greenhorn how to do it. He'd lost track of time and was just getting into the rhythm of finding all the bolts when someone grabbed his shoe, dragging him across the slick deck until he was blinking up at the open sky.

  
His deck boss's face came into view, light hair hidden by a dark ball-cap.

 

“Go check on 'Feyrac,” Combeferre ordered, helping him to his feet, “And make sure it's nothing serious.”

 

Grantaire started to obey but he was curious, “He's with the captain, so-”

 

“Tell them I want to know if we're lost or there's a mayday or something,” the older man cut him off, shoving at his shoulder to get get him going faster, “I don't like this silence.”

 

The artist threw his hands up, surrendering to the whims of his superior. He cut through the supply room instead of the stairs, passing through the galley to grab a cup of coffee to wake himself up a bit. Thankfully it was already brewed and it was a quick, the liquid going down smooth as he continued on to the staircase that led up into the wheelhouse. He tried to be quiet when he heard Courfeyrac and Enjolras in deep conversation, finishing off the coffee and throwing the paper cup over his shoulder carelessly.

 

Grantaire got to the top and peered over the half wall that separated the staircase and the room, spotting the two men. His dark brows shot up as he saw his captain in casual clothes. There was a grey wool hat pulled over his hair, the start of golden curls peeking out along his ears and forehead. A white Dutch Harbor t-shirt clung to his wide shoulders and his thick hips, laced with muscle, held up the band of true stone washed jeans that were frayed at the bottom and the knees. Half-gloves covered his hands, dark frames over his eyes as he bent over a fold-out table covered in maps. Courfeyrac was beside him, jacket and gloves off and laying on the counter so he could more accurately draw out something for his captain. They were speaking more lowly now.

 

“ _Knulle_! _Baiser_!” Enjolras cursed suddenly, striking his palm on the table, “You've seen the tests pots we've pulled. They're blank. There's nothing.”

 

“This ridge did well for us last year,” his cousin pointed out something on the map, “E, listen, it's been a season between. I think it'll work. Even if it doesn't, I've never seen us work so fast. We've bought you enough time to keep feeling it out.”

 

“Maybe, maybe,” Enjolras muttered, head shooting up when he heard boots creak on the stairs.

 

Grantaire tried to duck but he was already seen.

 

“R?” his cousin called.

 

Grantaire stood to his full height, a sheepish smile pulling his lips, “Uh, hi. Combeferre wanted to know if anything was wrong up here. He's kind of worried, I guess.”

 

He couldn't quite meet his captain's eyes at first so when he finally did he saw the man had a strange sort of smile on his face.

 

“Get back down there, boy,” Enjolras commanded, “Tell 'Ferre I'll return him in a minute.”

 

Grantaire nodded and mumble an affirmation, feet taking him back down the stairs.

 

If he learned anything that day it was how hard it was to adjust a swelling cock through four layers of clothing.

 

******

 

The few pots they'd been pulling had, indeed, been blank. Grantaire hadn't seen more than five crab in those seven hundred pounds cages. They'd dropped a string of pots on the ridge Courfeyrac had suggested to their captain and had let them soak for a good eight hours. The artist had made the mistake of greenhorn before him, he'd relaxed. Five full hours of sleep, a sit down meal, and he'd forgotten to stay on his toes.

 

One hundred of their one hundred and fifty pots were in the water and ready to pull.

 

The first pot they pulled was packed with crab. Courfeyrac and Combeferre dumped it out onto the table, Marius jumped inside to clear it out, and it was time to sort. His cousin gave him a caliper that had already been set and told him that if it touched each end of the crab's body or bigger, to keep it. Anything less, throw it in the tank.

 

Grantaire barely heard the advice over the roar in his ears. Pure panic swept through him. Everyone was moving with quick, practiced grabs. Though he'd been shown twice, suddenly the females and males looked the exact same. He knew it was illegal to haul the girls an juveniles, Fish & Game had a hefty fine for it. He didn't want Enjolras to get in trouble, he didn't want to get them charged. If he made too many stupid mistakes he'd be taking money right out of their pockets. Feuilly had two kids, Éponine sent cash to her younger brother, and he needed to pay rent. Who else among them would be out on the street if they didn't make their quota?

 

As his anxiety took over, his hands kept moving. With his eyes too clouded to see more than _too much_ in front of him, he was surprised when Marius grabbed him by the hood of his jacket and told him to stand back. The greenhorn moved out of the way, chewing harshly on his lower lip as the redhead took over his spot.

 

Once the crab was clear, Marius took him into the supply room. He tipped off his hat and knocked his hood back, trying to smile.

 

“Do you understand why I pulled you off?”

 

_Because I'm a waste of space and I get in everyone's way._

 

“Yeah.”

 

“You got mixed up a little there,” Marius gestured out toward the deck, “You were putting the good ones in the dump hole and the juveniles in the tank. You're just dumping you're own money back into the ocean and I don't want that.”

 

“I'm sorry,” his hands curled into fists at his side. He could almost hear himself blurting out some excuse about being confused but the whole time the words _worthless_ and _so stupid_ drowned out anything else. If he couldn't even tell male from female, what kind of future did he have?

 

When he finally stopped talking, Marius still had that sincere look on his face.

 

“Just be more careful and go slow if you need,” the older boy urged him, “ 'Ponine and I are fast enough that we can pick up whatever slack you make until you get the hang of it.”

 

“Thanks.”

_For taking care of an idiot._

 

“No problem,” he smacked the side of the artist's arm, “You're still learning. Let's just try again.”

 

******

 

The day got worse, every hour piling on that many more mistakes. Combeferre got on his case for dragging his feet and then Feuilly added on. Marius got fed up with him and told him to just stay off the sorting table. Even Joly lost patience with him, barking at him from the hydraulics to hurry up when he couldn't get the used hooks and bait boxes out of the pots after they'd removed the crab.

 

Éponine asked him if he needed to be shown again how to unhook and sort everything but he just shook his head, anxiety swallowing up his voice.

 

A constant stream of negativity went through Grantaire's mind, worse than what the crew threw at him. He couldn't keep up. He was weak, physically and mentally. With his nerves getting the best of him, he was faltering on the simplest tasks. It was worse because he'd been doing so well for the past few days. The insults inside and out were getting progressively worse and soon enough he couldn't even bring himself to raise his head. It was an old defense mechanism. If he didn't meet their eyes, they couldn't see how terrible he actually was. If he looked like just another person, maybe they wouldn't realize how horrid he was at even the simplest thing.

 

The pressure in his chest burst and tears started leaking from the corner of his eyes. He kept it quiet, pulling his hood down as far as it could go so the spray of the sea hid his shame.

  
While trying not to meet anyone's eyes, his foot caught on the edge of a board and he went down.

 

“Fuck all,” Combeferre scoffed loudly, “Get your ass lazy ass up and moving, kid!”

 

He couldn't get up. He didn't deserve it.

 

_Let a wave take me. You'd be better off._

 

The loudspeaker clicked on, “ _Thirty minutes, guys. Get in here and eat._ ”

 

Grantaire only got up because Éponine hooked their arms together and dragged him, trying to laugh it off while telling him that the deck was almost too slippery to get back up properly. That artist stayed quiet all through stripping off their gloves and outer jackets, dodging so he didn't even bump elbows with his fellow fisherman. He got a big mug of coffee and some rolls packed with meat and cheese, something that Marius cooked up quick and tasty.

 

“Greenhorns always start off strong and then fall off when it's time to start hauling pots,” Feuilly commented from where he stood by the fridge, “Every time without fail.”

 

“I'm sorry,” he croaked, bent over his coffee. He stared into the inky depths and breathed in the sweet smoke rising out of the mug.

 

“Don't be sorry,” Combeferre ripped his own bun in half, “Just don't be useless.”

 

_Useless._

 

The word struck him so hard a fine tremble went through his fingers, making his coffee splash up dangerously. A silent sob racked his chest, the only sign of it in the quiver of his mouth.

 

“I can't,” Grantaire couldn't believe that was his voice, it sounded so rough.

 

Feuilly took a big swallow of his own coffee, “Don't tell me you're quitting?”

 

“Everybody, shut up!” Courfeyrac demanded, kneeling down in front of his cousin. The artist was perched at the very end of the booth, head still tucked down. He pried his fingers down around his chin, coaxing his face up.

 

“R?” he saw the shimmer of wetness clinging to the younger man's scruff, “R, look at me. You're not useless. You're not worthless or whatever else you're thinking.”

 

“You shouldn't have brought me,” Grantaire shook his head, knuckles white around the mug, “I can't do it. I-I can't. I want to so bad, I'll try. I'll be better.”

 

“Hush,” Courfeyrac shot a glare at their deck boss, “Get Joly.”

 

Combeferre rushed out, bringing the medic back with one of those kits in his hands. Joly pushed the others aside, telling them to get back to eating and there was nothing to see. He knelt down beside Courfeyrac, laying down the box and cracking it open.

 

“What is it?” Joly glanced between the cousins, “What's wrong?”

 

“He has anxiety,” Courfeyrac tried to keep his voice down but he knew there was no real privacy on a boat, “He always has, ever since he was young. I think he...fell into it.”

 

Joly dug around his box for a bottle, shaking two white pills out into his palm and holding it up, “Open.”

 

Grantaire shook his head so hard his curls bounced, his cousin grabbing his shoulders just a second before he started trying to pull away, “No! No medicine, I'm fine. I'll do better.”

 

“It's okay,” Courfeyrac tried to persuade, “You took medicine before, remember? It wasn't so bad.”

 

“Please,” but his cousin's hands were too strong, “Don't drug me.”

 

“You can't have an episode on the boat,” Joly protested gently, “The waves, the stress, it's not good for anyone. I don't want you stumbling back out onto the deck. Just take these and sleep it off.”

 

“Please,” he tried again, wide eyes still stuck on the pills, “Joly, please, I don't want to.”

 

“You'll feel so much better,” Joly promised, that 'perfect calm' in his voice that his therapists used to use, “You're worked up right now. If you could see yourself from our side, you'd understand. I don't want you hurting yourself.”

 

The medic raised his hand a little closer and the young jerked back, “No!”

 

“What's going on here?”

 

All heads turned toward the stairs, where the captain himself was descending. Grantaire squirmed out of Courfeyrac's hands, crawling away until he was curled into the farthest part of the booth. He buried his face between his knees, praying it would all be over soon. Maybe they would drop him off at St. Paul, at least from there he could catch a plane home and just hide himself away on some French park bench with no more thoughts of the Bering Sea or his beautiful skipper.

 

“He's anxious, captain,” Joly tried to explain, “I was just trying to give him something to calm him down.”

 

“It's like depression,” Courfeyrac explained nervously, “But more – uh – desperate, I guess.”

 

“I know what the hell anxiety is,” Enjolras grabbed both their shoulders, “Move.”

 

Courfeyrac jumped away but Joly lingered a moment, gathering his stuff before backing off. Path clear, Enjolras scooted into the booth a little bit at a time like he was trying not to scare him. Grantaire peeked out from behind his hair, wondering just how much trouble he was in for screwing up.

 

“Don't make me,” he pleaded.

 

“I won't,” Enjolras's gaze was softer than usual as he moved closer, “Just tell me what's wrong.”

 

“I couldn't sort crab and then I couldn't...couldn't do anything,” Grantaire finally picked up his head, though his eyes were on the older man's mouth, “I cost you money. I couldn't tell the difference between crabs and I put everything wrong and I was too slow.”

 

His breath ran out and he stopped.

 

“I wish you'd told me you suffered form this condition,” the word condition didn't sound like a harsh sentence in the blonde's timbre, “I didn't see that in your record.”

 

“My father kept it off the files,” he replied as evenly as he could. He could feel the others staring at him, judging him, picking him apart. They knew he didn't deserve to be here.

 

“Okay, alright,” Enjolras sounded as if he'd made a decision and the other wasn't sure if it was in his favor or not, “Grantaire, can you come out here for me?”

 

“Do I have to take the medicine?”

 

_Please don't tell me to. I'll do it, for you, to fix what I did._

 

“I'd be upset if you did,” Enjolras replied, shooting a glare at his medic, “Since no one should be forced to take medication if they don't want it. For God's sake, Joly, you know better.”

 

“He was getting hysteric,” Joly defended weakly, “I was afraid he'd hurt himself.”

 

Enjolras turned his attention back to the artist, holding out his hand, “Take it.”

 

Grantaire flinched, a phantom pain shooting up his arm and through his socket.

 

_Take my hand, son._

 

A snap, a cry.

 

_No, father, please! You're hurting me!_

 

“I'm going to take you back to your room,” Enjolras's soothing voice cut through the flashback, “And you're going to sleep for a few hours while Joly takes over bait.”

 

Grantaire nodded, slowly sliding his fingers across the blonde's rough palm before completely taking his hand. His captain seemed pleased as he slowly tugged him out of the booth, leading him past the others and toward the three bedrooms. He didn't ask how the older man knew which one was his.

 

“Let's take all this off,” Enjolras ran a finger over his overalls, “Sit down and we'll get your boots.”

 

“Don't have to,” he was already drifting, the relief of not having to take the medicine knocking out the last of his strength, “I can do it.”

 

“Be quiet,” but the scolding was light.

 

Grantaire managed to shrug off the straps and take off his hat as the blonde knelt down in front of him, eyes downcast as his strong fingers make quick work of the laces on his shoes. He could feel the faint tugging through the heavy leather but it was enough to make him blush. His captain, this great Greek god of the seas, was doing him the service of unlacing his boots. Oh, to have it the other way around. He would gladly do this every day for Enjolras if he would allow it. Remove his boots, massage the tension from his shoulders, give his lengthening locks a thorough washing.

 

He was pulled out of his little fantasy by the older man ordering him to lay down. Feet free, he acquiesced. The pillow was cool against his cheek, a blanket was pulled over him.

 

“I want you to promise me that if you ever start going through this again, you'll go to your cousin or myself,” the man was sitting beside him now.

 

“I will,” Grantaire nodded into the cloth, hiding his face as best he could, “I really am sorry.”

 

“Don't be sorry,” Enjolras shifted, voice pitched just a bit lower like an order, “Just promise.”

 

“I promise.”

 

“You can't do beat yourself up like this, boy, it's not good for your heart or your nerves,” the captain's hand crept through his hair, petting the curls in a way that made his back arch up. Grantaire desperately hoped he wasn't dreaming. It felt so good, like acceptance and damnation all at once. The man may have well just have stroked his heart so tenderly. The artist tilted his head up, blinking up at his captain. He watched the man's expression go from content to worried in just a second or two.

 

The hand drew back, “My apologies.”

 

“ 'S okay,” he slurred, head falling back into the pillow.

 

“Sleep. I'll have your cousin come wake you when you're needed back on deck,” Enjolras rose and he immedietely missed his comforting weight, “Make sure to eat something before you go back out.”

 

But Grantaire was already asleep.

 

******

 

“Go. And have Combeferre come out.”

 

Joly left with his tail between his legs, looking properly scolded. He'd be thinking twice before trying to enforce medication on another member of this crew.

 

Enjolras has just stubbed out his cigarette when his deck boss appeared.

 

“Take off your jacket.”

 

“Sir?” there was a note of panic in the other blonde's voice.

 

“I'm not firing you, 'Ferre,” Enjolras watched the man's shoulder slump in relief, “I want to talk as men for a moment.”

 

Both jackets and gloves came off until the larger man was only in his sweatshirt and suspenders. His hat was clutched between his hands, fingers twisting it into a shapeless mess. It was very rare he had to do this with his second in command and it was a new situation for both of them.

 

“I don't question how you run the deck,” Enjolras switched the boat into autopilot, turning to face the younger man, “You've done nothing short of excellent work on this boat. I know you could leave any moment, that there are prospects out there for you. Maybe one day I'll lose you to some woman with the promise of a family. But until that day, you're my deck boss and I trust you to keep the men in line.”

 

Blue eyes narrowed, “That includes yourself.”

 

“I know, sir.”

 

“Marius told me exactly what happened and for the first time, I'm ashamed of your actions.”

 

“Feuilly-”

 

“Feuilly with get his turn once I'm done with you but I've yet to start!”

 

Combeferre snapped his mouth shut with an audible click, fingers hidden in the curve of his cap.

 

“Making excuses,” Enjolras ground out, “It's like you want me to give your job to 'Feyrac.”

 

The other fisherman looked like he'd been slapped.

 

“You're a good-hearted man,” the blonde leaned back in his chair, fingers resting on the slope of his jaw, “I know you feel bad about yelling at that child, but I want you to know that I won't tolerate behavior like that again.”

 

“I didn't know he suffered like that,” Combeferre contested, “He didn't tell anyone.”

 

“Would _you_ have?”

 

Combeferre shrugged, a silent and unwilling admit to defeat.

 

“You trained Éponine into one of the best workers I've veer had so I'm not saying anything about your methods being off. But I don't want you kicking the greenhorn while he's down,” Enjolras rectified, “Do you understand? You need to observe who you're yelling at and if they can't take it, you set them straight and tell them how it is.”

 

Enjolras's eyes flickered out the window, “I won't have that boy gasping himself into shock in my galley again. He looks up to you and Feuilly both and I'm sure it hurt to hear some of those things.”

 

Combeferre doubled-checked to make sure no one was listening in from the stairs before he spoke, “You're babying him.”

“Excuse me?” the edge was back to his voice.

 

“You heard me,” thick arms crossed over his chest, “You're swaddling the kid. I've never seen you so gentle with anything other than a dog! You practically tucked him in. Did you think no one would notice?”

 

“I'm doing what any other captain would do to diffuse a bad situation.”

 

“You're lying right to my face,” Combeferre awed, jaw dropping, “If we're speaking as friends, you're being a poor one.”

 

Enjolras's fingers dug so hard into the arms of his chair that the leather creaked. But just like _that_ , the tension snapped. He slumped, dropping his face into his hands and bracing his elbows on his knees.

 

“Enj? Are you okay?” Combeferre went up to his captain, laying a hand on his shoulder, “I didn't meant to get on you like that.”

 

“No, no. You're right,” Enjolras admitted, voice muffled by his palms, “I think I'm developing a certain... _fondness_ for him.”

 

He dropped his hands enough to see his friend's shocked face, “But nothing more! Wipe that look off your face!”

 

The authoritative tone set the younger man straight, getting him to step back.

 

“Plus, I don't want him suing you once we get back to shore,” Enjolras sat up, “Now get back on deck. And tell Feuilly I want to speak with him.”

 

Realizing he'd lost the battle, Combeferre gave a brief _yes, sir_ before shoving his gear back on.

 

******

 

Eight hours later, when Enjolras's head was growing heavy and he was contemplating taking a nap, there was another visitor in his wheelhouse.

 

It was Grantaire. The boy was wet from the waves that had splashed up on deck but his hat was off, each droplet of water shining like crystal on the tips of his curls. He was flushed and clean shaven, looking better than the shivering boy he'd put into a coat a while ago. He'd been out there for a while and the night air seemed to have done him some good.

 

They had a short jog to the next string, the boy should've been smoking or sitting with the rest of the crew in the supply room.

 

“What is it, boy?” Enjolras snapped, heel braced on the table as he switched off the weather report he'd had on to keep him awake.

 

“I wanted to tell you again how sorry I am for freaking out on everyone,” Grantaire's lower lip was red from chewing, it stood out against his pale skin, “I'm usually a lot better than that.”

 

“You already apologized. Quit wasting my time,” his fingers traced over the switch, ready to flick the radio back on.

 

“But this time I mean it,” Grantaire retorted, “Whatever I say when I'm like that, it's usually only what I think someone wants to hear. Thanks to you I feel a lot better, and the guys seem to understand why I didn't say anything about it before.”

 

The boy gathered himself together, cutting off his ramble, “I shouldn't have put any of you in that situation. Next time, I'll try to nip it in the bud.”

 

Tan fingers dropped from the toggle, “You're still learning. Give yourself some slack.”

 

The artist's grin was cheeky, “Is that an order, sir?”

 

“You bet your ass it is,” he threw his chin at the door, “Get back down there.”

 

“Aye, aye,” he gave a salute and then was gone, bounding off like a rabbit.

 

 _That kid has a lot of energy when he wants to_ , Enjolras smiled to himself, turning the report on once more, _I bet he can go for hours._

 

It took a few minutes before the captain colored up to his ears, realizing what he'd though.

 

_Good lord, that boy is going to give me an aneurysm._

 

* * *

**Drop a line if you want to see more :)**

**Gifset[here](http://emono-omae.tumblr.com/post/64816940617/you-shouldnt-have-brought-me-grantaire-shook)**

 

 

 


	5. Short Chapter

Grantaire was listening to Éponine tell a story about trying to net fish for the first time when it happened. It was sudden, sharp, and clamped down on two of his fingers. He ripped his hands out of the pile of crab he'd been sorting, one of the creatures latched on for the ride. It was almost as long as his arm and had a herculean grip. He cried out, his other hand coming down to try and hit it off.

 

“What are you doing?” Courfeyrac laughed, leaning on the side of the table.

 

“I'm going to punch it in its stupid crab face!” Grantaire bellowed, whacking it off the deck in vain, “Let go of me, you little shit!”

 

His cousin and Marius were too breathless with mirth to offer any useful suggestion. Grantaire rushed to the bait table, snatching a hammer from his bucket of tools and slamming it down on top of the crustacean's arm. The claw exploded, releasing his aching hand.

 

“Come here,” Joly grabbed his glove, feeling out the artist's fingers, “Nothing broken. How much does it hurt? Do you feel anything different?”  
  


“I feel like a crab bit me,” Grantaire scrunched up his nose as he tried not to make a pathetic sound, “I don't think it's broken.”

 

“I think you're fine,” the medic's lips turned up at the corners, “You should be more careful. Guys have lost their fingers in less.”

 

“This happens a lot?”  
  


The guys just laughed.

 

********

 

They filed into the cover of the ship, the rain whipping at their backs. Their captain had deemed the storm too violent to continue fishing in, complaining that he couldn't see the buoys from his wheelhouse. If he couldn't spot them, there was a high risk of running over the lines and getting their motors jammed. The break was impromptu but much needed. They had a few short hours and everyone was ready to drop.

 

The 'zombie movie' comment wasn't as funny when they were moaning and dragging their feet.

 

The three bedrooms were divided up pretty evenly among the crew, the captain's hidden somewhere up at the wheelhouse. Courfeyrac and Combeferre shared, their two beds on opposite sides of the narrow room. The other two had two sets of bunk beds, mounted to the walls and comfortable. Joly, Feuilly, and Marius shared in an unspoken rule to give the woman on board some privacy in the remaining room. Yet when Grantaire had joined the crew, she'd offered to bunk with him.

 

The two friends stood back to back and stripped off their gear, getting down to their shirts and pants. Each pile of gear was kicked aside.

 

“I need to wash my face and brush my teeth and _eat_ ,” Éponine groaned, leaning heavily on the frame so her forehead rested on the top bunk, “I'm not going to get a God damn one of them.”

 

Grantaire hummed, plucking off his cap.

 

Courfeyrac ducked into the room, coming up to wrap an arm around his cousins shoulders.

 

“Proud of you, R,” his cousin pressed a kiss to his forehead, fingers ruffling his hair, “Have peaceful dreams, okay?”

 

Grantaire nodded, leaning into the affectionate embrace. He crawled into bed, his arms giving out before his head could properly hit the pillow.

* * *

 **Sorry for the chapter being so short. The next scene is a dream sequence and boot-kinky so I wanted to distinguish between them. Feedback makes me write faster *wink***  

 


	6. Little Dream Sequence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire's sleeping mind lets him play out his repressed desires.

**I'm sorry to disappoint anyone who thought this was going to be a full on wet dream. I feel so awful, but your responses were so positive! I wanted to save the best stuff for when the boys ACTUALLY got together. Sorry if you feel short-changed, I promise to make it up later with real sex.**  

* * *

 

Grantaire blinked hard, trying to figure out exactly where he was. The wheelhouse? When had he gone up there? The last thing he remembered-

 

_Oh._

 

Enjolras was sitting in the captain's chair, though the leather was thicker and it was mounted closer to the floor. That sea-shaded gaze was heavy-lidded and focused on him, nailing him in place. The blonde was set in a regal sprawl, legs carelessly parted to show off how snugly his jeans hugged him. That shirt, a simple white, was practically poured on to his chest. But the real focal point was further down. Those boots. _Those boots_. The ones from a faraway dream of thrones and submission.

 

If this was a dream, he'd strangled the person who woke him up.

 

Enjolras raised a hand and crooked a finger at him, then pointed to the floor. The command was silent and sure, demanding complete attention.

 

_You. Come. Kneel._

 

Grantaire nodded, dragging his feet through what felt like wet cement to obey.

 

_Yes, sir._

 

He dropped to his knees right between his captain's feet, ripping his eyes from his shoes to gaze into the man's face. But those _boots_. They were long, laced tight up his shins and kissing the edges of his knees. There was power and shape hidden under matte leather, pure muscle pushing against the strings. It made his mouth water.

 

“What is it you want, boy?”

 

Grantaire shivered, “I...I...”

 

A blonde brow raised at the poor articulation, “You come all the way up here, bared for me like a sacrifice, and you don't even know what you want?”

 

Grantaire bit back a squeak as he realized how naked he actually was. He tried to cover himself, hide the hard shame leaking against his stomach, but the man flashed his canines.

 

“Don't you dare hide what's mine!”

 

Grantaire moaned outright, dropping his hands onto his trembling thighs. Those words shouldn't have made him ache so much. He should have defended his right to do whatever the fuck he felt like. He should have been cold, nervous, or frightened – but he wasn't. He was warmer than he could ever remember being and Enjolras was here, he would take care of him. He trusted him. Maybe more than he should.

 

“I want...” he couldn't say it.

 

Enjolras rested the curl of one finger under his chin, thumb barely skimming across his lips, “What does my boy want?”

 

“I want to be good,” Grantaire whimpered out, the shame of just _how much_ burning scarlet paths up his chest and neck, “I want you to...make better use of my mouth.”

 

Everything sped up after that. His lips grazed dark laces, his tongue worshiped smooth darkness, and his cock throbbed between his thighs. He wanted to be touched but he was content caressing the leather and letting the taste of it wash down the back of his throat. Horribly degrading things were growled out by his captain, the term _filthy slut_ sinking into his skin like a brand. He tried to raise his head, offer more, but a boot heel dug into the back of his head.

 

“Did I say you could move?”

 

“N-No, sir,” Grantaire shuddered, pushing into the hard touch even as tears leaked from the corners of his eyes, “Please, I'll be good, I promise.”

 

“Will you be my good boy?”

 

“Oh yes,” he pleaded, the heel biting into his scalp, “Please Enjolras, captain, anything. Anything you want.”

 

* * *

***fans self* Man, I can't wait for them to hook up. Damn, boys. Next chapter will be up today.**

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	7. Who's Taking Care Of Whom?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Both captain and deckhand realize that their feelings might not be so easy to dismiss.

Grantaire groaned so loud he yanked himself out of the dream, the blanket tangled up around his legs and sweat slicking his chest and forehead. He was out of breath, fingers aching from how tightly he had been gripping the sheets. He sat up, dropping his head onto his knee as he tried to remember where he was. It had felt so real. The bite of the carpet in his knees, the rubber tugging on his roots, the commands ringing in his ears. Enjolras's shoes had felt so real beneath his mouth, his lips were still tingling.

 

He wormed a hand underneath his bedding and clothes, blushing hotly when he felt something thick and slick along his cock and the inside of his underwear.

 

“ _Will you be my good boy?”_

 

“Fuck!” Grantaire cursed, falling back onto the mattress.

 

Éponine grumbled, half asleep with her head buried under her own pillow, “Shut up before I face fuck you.”

 

********

 

A week and a half on twenty hour days went by like a blur.

 

Grantaire forgot what it was like to be clean and well-rested. It was gloriously exhausting.

 

******

 

Enjolras ordered them on a forty minute sleep break while they jogged to the next string. The crew lumbered into the supply room, fingers aching from sorting crab and dragging pots.

 

Grantaire watched Combeferre collapse against a wall, sliding down until he could sit properly. His deck boss crossed his arms over his chest and dropped his head. Courfeyrac knelt before thudding down in front of the older man, laying on his stomach where their wet boots had been. Their breathing seemed to sync up for a moment before they fell asleep, faces hidden to the light.

 

“It's not worth taking anything off,” Éponine explained, trudging up the stairs to the second level. The artist shrugged before following her up to the upper tier where a lot of the machine parts were stored. The woman curled up next to a water heater, tugging down the brim of her cap before laying her head against the smooth metal. He stretched out on his back just a few feet from her, taking five relaxed breaths before he too fell asleep.

 

******

 

Grantaire woke up with a rough shift of the boat. His eyes popped open and he immediately winced, the light harsh enough to sting. He sat up and stretched, letting his muscles breathe. The others were still asleep where they fell, bodies stretched out over the floor or propped up against the wall.

 

In that moment, he thought of their captain. Alone up in the wheelhouse, intense eyes on the sea and ears perked for reports of the weather stopping or becoming worse. Enjolras must have been getting tired, he'd been up as long as the rest of them. There were plenty of jobs to be done, there always were on a crab boat, but he wanted the crew to sleep while they could. And while imagining his captain all alone, fighting exhaustion, he couldn't help but beg a question.

 

Who was taking care of Enjolras?

 

Grantaire picked through them, being careful not to jostle anyone. Nothing would get him thumped on the head harder than waking a crewman mid-nap. He headed into the galley and shucked off his gloves and oil-slick, laying them over the nearest chair. Checking the time and deciding he had enough, he got in the cabinet and pulled out a fresh bag of coffee. The ship gave a little heave and he fell into the counter.

 

“Damn, baby, I'm only trying to take care of our captain,” Grantaire rubbed the nearest cabinet like he was petting an animal, “Calm down, will you?”

 

The artist-turned-fisherman got busy brewing a new pot of coffee, suppressing yawns and rubbing at his eyes. After a drowsy minute or two, it beeped and finished up. He brought down the largest cup they had and filled it up, hesitating at the end. How did the captain take his coffee? He'd seen the man grab his own and the others shuttle some up to him, but he couldn't remember what they'd put in it.

 

“Use the good vanilla cream.”

 

Grantaire startled at the surprisingly soft voice. He turned and spotted Marius's ginger hair peeking out from the booth they used as a dining table. The boy sat up a bit and clover green eyes were exposed, blinking at him while his large mouth curled up into a sleepy smile.

 

“Enj likes his coffee warm and sweet,” Marius looked like a little brat with a secret.

 

He added the cream, stirring it in, “Thanks.”

 

“Welcome,” the older boy dropped back down into the booth, sighing softly as he started to drift back off. Grantaire took the steps up to the wheelhouse, watching the mug closely so as not to spill even one drop. The wheelhouse was dark, the only brightness coming from the sodium lights mounted to the mast. Crimson and teal poured out a soft glow that cast striking shadows over Enjolras's tan face, the man vigilant but weary around the eyes. He was too busy making notes on the next few hours of nautical conditions to notice the greenhorn's presence.

 

Grantaire cleared his throat, “Sir?”

 

Enjolras sat upright, eyes flickering up from the paper, “Grantaire? What is it? Is something wrong?”

 

“No, uh,” he walked up to the older man, setting the steaming mug on the clearest spot beside the man, “I thought you could use this. You've been up a while.”

 

Enjolras stared down at the coffee like it had started singing or sprouted limbs, “You...brought this for me?”

 

Grantaire nodded, taking a step back to respect the other's personal space, “I brewed a new pot. It should keep you going.”

 

“Well,” he reached for it, fingers curling around the warm handle, “Yes. Thank you. I appreciate it. Very much so.”

 

Grantaire cracked a smile, “Is there anything else I can do?”

 

“You can spit-shine my shoes, if you're feeling generous,” Enjolras jested lightly, raising the cup to his lips.

 

Color rose in high points on the artist's cheeks but the smile stayed, “If that's what you want, sir.”

 

Enjolras paused, fatigue fading as a hot flash of lust shot through his chest and down between his legs. He looked the ravenette up and down, gauging him, trying to figure out what exactly he was playing at. Grantaire's posture was open and he looked earnest enough. For all intents and purposes he looked like a wide eyed boy, eager to please.

 

 _If I asked him to get on his knees right now, he would_ , Enjolras realized with a breathless rush of power. It was followed by a roil of apprehension, their positions of authority siting wrong with him. Even if he wanted Grantaire like that, the thought of him doing it to keep his job made him sick.

 

“Why don't you finish your nap up here?” he found himself asking.

 

Grantaire cocked his head, considering the offer. He'd get to sleep in the same room as Enjolras, that was the biggest draw. The scent of flowery detergent still clung to the carpet and walls, but there was just a bit of brine floating through the air (like it did everywhere else).

 

“If that's alright with you, you're majesty.”

 

Enjolras sputtered, nearly spilling the entire mug down his shirt. The captain glared at the younger man, who's smile had morphed into a large grin.

 

“You little shit,” he cursed, wiping the back of his hand over his lips.

 

“Like anyone can keep a secret on a ship,” Grantaire sat down on the floor, leaning against a desk, “I've learned that much.”

 

Enjolras took a long drink before setting the mug aside, “You've learned more than that.”

 

But the kid was already snoring.

 

******

 

Enjolras waited until the last minute to wake the boy up. Everyone was already out on deck and they were probably aggravated because the greenhorn got to sleep an extra few minutes. Courfeyrac had already come up asking about his cousin, and when he'd seen the boy propped up against the wall he'd clammed up. No doubt Combeferre's own worries had run through his but unlike his deck boss, the younger had kept his mouth smartly shut.   
  


He put on the autopilot and eased out of the captain's chair, rubbing the heel of his hand into the small of his back. Every year he felt the ache a little more. One day he'd end up like his father, taking five pain killers in the morning just to get out of bed. He took a moment to stretch and get everything realigned before making his way over to his youngest crew member.

 

“Grantaire?” Enjolras dropped down to one knee, shaking his shoulder lightly.

 

“Wha...? What's wrong?” the boy sounded so sweet and quiet, dark lashes hanging heavy as he tried to rouse himself.

 

“Nothing,” Enjolras rubbed the growing muscle, “It's time to head back on deck.”

 

“Yes, sir,” his voice was still soft as he struggled to get up, his legs wobbling like they were asleep. Enjolras helped pull him up on his feet, quickly grabbing his waist when he nearly fell over. As Grantaire started apologizing, Enjolras couldn't help but run his hands over the boy's cinched waist. He'd seen the greenhorn climb and throw himself into pots but he was still soft around the middle, the flesh yielding when his palm slid over it. It just reminded him of how painfully young the kid was.

 

 _Seven years, Enjolras, seven years_ , the blonde tried to remind himself, setting the artist off toward the door, _He's a child. He's barely legal to drink in this state. This is nothing._

 

Even after he shut and locked the door, he couldn't quite believe it.

 

* * *

 

 

**Thank you all for your awesome feedback. I love hearing from you, I really do. As you can see - you reviewed, and I wrote. It's just fuel to me.**

 


	8. Grantaire, Put the Bottle Down!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life at sea isn't all sing-alongs and getting rich. Grantaire learns that lesson the hard way. But really, is there any other way to learn it?

**Having trouble getting in the mood for this fic? Watch _Deadliest Catch_ , same thing.**

* * *

 

Grantaire had just finished grinding up the new batch of bait for their next line of pots when the loud speaker crackled.

 

“ _The Orbit went down a few miles from here. Leave the pots and grab the rescue gear. I want all eyes to port looking for red. Debris, life-rafts, anything. We're looking for men, not bodies. We've got time on our side for this one._ ”

 

Grantaire could feel the _Liberté_ shifting course beneath his feet.

 

“What's going on?” he inquired, following his cousin's lead of snatching up the life rings.

 

“A ship's epirb must have gone off,” Courfeyrac panted, threading three rings over his arm and starting toward the side of the rig, “The Coast Guard calls on all surrounding ships to help look when a ship sends out a mayday. The more eyes, the more chance there is to find them.”

 

“Are we going to the wreck?”  
  


“E's probably putting us down flow of it,” he set the life savers by his feet, keeping one hand on the rail, “If we're heading off point hat means someone's already at the scene.”

 

“Do you think they're...?” Grantaire swallowed, choking on the word _dead._

 

“Maybe,” Éponine replied gravely.

 

“Not if we can help it,” Combeferre growled, hood off and hat pushed back to get the best view, “Look for contrast and movement.”

 

And so they did. All hands on deck, every eye on the sharp waves of the Bering sea. Together they searched and hoped, those who prayed wishing for the safety of their brother fishermen. In a moment of disconnect from the horror, Grantaire awed at the strong bonds that this job created.

 

Courfeyrac grabbed his shoulder and gave it a shake, “Is that a guy? Tell me I'm not seeing things.”  
  


Grantaire followed his cousin's pointing finger. At first eh didn't see anything but after a few seconds, after the crest of a wave, he spotted it. An arm, a head, all covered in one of those slim survival suits.

 

Marius, who was at the top of the wheelhouse steps to get a better vantage point, bellowed, “Man overboard!”

 

The _Liberté_ powered forward, the waves carrying their stolen bundle right into the side of her metal hip. Keeping themselves latched firmly onto the railing, the crew tried to urge the man closer by sheer will alone. Joly came up from below with wool blankets and waited nearby, a med kit already tucked under one arm. Before their greenhorn could blink twice, the fisherman was in front of them.

 

Combeferre dared to stretch out, nearly falling himself on the rock of the ship as his fingers caught on the back of the fallen man's suit.

 

“ 'Ferre!” Courfeyrac curled his arms around the blonde's hips, dragging him back over, “If you fall, so help me God-”

 

“I got him!” Combeferre hauled the man in on pure strength, manhandling him over and flat on the deck. They could only watch as their deck boss unzipped the man's hood and exposed his slack face.

 

“Can you hear me?” he slapped the man's cheek, “Fuck. He's unresponsive. Jol, get the adrenaline.”

 

The medic chewed on the inside of his cheek as the older man started CPR, “I don't think...”

 

Combeferre tilted the man's head back and started pouring air into his lungs. Realization started to dawn on the crew, several sets of teeth grit so tight their jaws ached.

 

“ 'Ferre,” Courfeyrac pleaded, putting a hand on his friend's shoulder to stop him. Their deck boss shrugged him off, piling his hands over one another to pump at the fisherman's chest. Breathy counts of _one, two, three_ escaped him before he pushed another breath down the man's throat.

 

“Oh God,” Marius covered his mouth, turning away with a new greenish tint to his freckles.

 

Grantaire could feel his own stomach starting to churn. He'd never seen a dead body before.

 

“Christ, man, stop!” Feuilly grabbed him under one harm, hand digging into his shoulder so he could haul him back. Combeferre tried to struggle but when he spotted the blue of the fisherman's blue lips and still eyelashes, he went limp.

 

“He was moving,” the older blonde panted out, one hand bone-white and clawed into his friend's arm, “Y-You saw him. He was moving. He was alive.”

 

Joly could see the panic welling up in their deck boss, “Hey, man-”

 

“He was just alive!” Combeferre's face pulled in a sob, chest shuddering under Feuilly's grip, “I had him! He was fucking moving, you saw it! _God damn it!_ ”

 

Grantaire turned away, tears burning his eyes and bile searing the back of his throat. The sight of the corpse was too much for him. His cousin grabbed his shoulder, bringing him into a hug.

 

“It's okay, R, it's okay,” Courfeyrac promised in his ear, “That's not going to be us. That'll never happen to you, I swear it.”

 

Combeferre was still cursing and crying when Enjolras came on deck. He looked just as shaken as the rest of them. He walked over and knelt beside his friend, laying his hand next to Feuilly's on the younger man's chest. Their captain took a deep breath before raising his voice to be heard over the wind.

 

“The _Orbit_ went down,” Enjolras declared, “She took five good men with her. There's...there's nothing more we can do. I'm going to call the Coast Guard to collect him. 'Feyrac, Marius, set the anchor. Everybody else head inside and say a prayer. I think we all need a minute.”

 

Grantaire's hand shot out and he clenched a fist in his cousin's oil slick, “Let me help.”

 

Enjolras seemed to roll his reply around on his tongue for a moment, “Take your cousin inside.”

 

Courfeyrac obeyed, leading the artist off deck without letting him go. Grantaire glanced back in time to see his captain moving to stand on the hydraulics, shouting at Marius to set the chain. His heart lurched in affection, the urge to please the captain doubling up within him.

 

 _Thank you_ , he wanted to say.

 

**

 

There was a shoot on the side of the ship where they often threw juveniles and female crab back into the ocean. It was about half the size of a fridge, smooth, and would sometimes get a little stuffed if they had a bad pot. When the sorting table was locked down, whoever was on that side would take up the task of shoving their useless catch down it.

 

They pulled a pot that was chock-full, crabs practically bursting from the steel seams. But they'd hit a string of female and with heavy hearts, they had to throw them back.

 

“For Christ's own sake,” Courfeyrac braced himself on the table, using his feet to kick the crab down, “This is breaking my heart, and my wallet.”

 

“It's illegal,” Éponine shrugged, plucking a finely built male out of the pile and tossing him in the pot, “R, get ready to tell the captain we've got single digit keepers.”

 

“Oh yeah, send the new guy,” Grantaire laughed, holding a crab smaller than his fist up to a caliber, “I'm sure that will go over well.”

  
“He takes bad news better from you,” Combeferre nodded toward their old greenhorn, the color back in his face since the day before when they'd lost a man, “And Marius. Every time someone else tells him, he seems to push us harder. Wonder why that is?”

 

It was an obvious tease that only Feuilly laughed at, “Maybe the captain's got a sweet spot.”

 

Grantaire blushed and kept his eyes on the crab, trying to hide his pleased smile. Those words set his heart a-flutter but he didn't dare let the other sea-hardened fisherman see that.

 

“I would sell my soul for a full pot of keepers like this,” the second mate declared, jumping before slamming both heels onto the pile of crab, “Get down there, you little suckers. Go back to the sea so we can catch your boyfriends and-”

 

Courfeyrac slipped out of their view, disappearing behind the table.

 

Grantaire and Combeferre froze in the same moment, standing side-by-side on the opposite end of the table. There was a scream and Feuilly was the one to jump to action, unhitching the brake and kicking the entire table aside. Hundreds of pounds of metal rolled away, revealing the flailing ravenette clinging to the pinboards. His body was stretched along the shoot but his legs...his legs were in the ocean.

 

“ 'Rac!” Grantaire rushed forward with his deck boss, each grabbing an arm and yanking the man up. Courfeyrac was babbling, begging them to bring him up and not to let him die. With a great heave, they managed to drag the man up on deck and out of the lick of the waves. Grantaire felt his cousin start to tremble under his hands and the moment he touched his pants he knew why. They were frozen, ever droplet biting into his finger like ice. It was different from the spray he got in the face while working.

 

“ _What the hell was that?!_ ” Enjolras screamed over the bullhorn, “ _Get him inside this instant!_ ”

 

In the galley, Courfeyrac stripped off his gear and was shoved into warmer wool clothing. His legs were trembling, thighs jumping under the force of his shivers as he tried to calm down his comatose cousin. Grantaire couldn't think past a nod or a head shake, unable to do anything else but stare at the older boy. Combeferre was the opposite, fussing over wrapping the man in a blanket and scrubbing his damp curls and neck with a dry towel. He sounded like Joly, trying to tell him what to do to keep warm in hurried breaths.

 

“Combeferre.”

 

It was Enjolras, standing at the bottom of the stairs.

 

“Take him to his room, I think he could use a rest after that,” the captain instructed, nodding toward the bedrooms.

 

“I-I-I'm okay,” Courfeyrac's smile didn't quite reach his eyes, “I just fell for a second.”

 

“You've been working hard all morning, take an hour.”

 

“Come on,” Combeferre pulled the younger to his feet, pushing him by both shoulders down the hall. Enjolras watched them leave, and once they were secure in their shared room he hurried over to their greenhorn. He grabbed Grantaire's jacket and pushed him against the wall, putting his free hand on his forehead and forcing the boy to look at him.

 

“Hey!” Enjolras caught his attention in an instant, “Stop it. Stop it right now! There's nothing you could have done. You grabbed him, you pulled him out.”

 

“But that man,” he clenched his jaw down hard, fighting back tears, “We pulled him out too. We had to cover him in a sheet and put him in a basket! He went home like that!”

 

“I watch you all too closely. I've never lost a man. That _won't_ happen.”

 

“What? Do you think that man's captain didn't care?” Grantaire's laugh was on the line of hysterical, “You think he just _let it_ happen? That man was someone's cousin too! If the Bering wants us, she'll take us. And she almost took him from me.”

 

“Grantaire, you need to calm down-”

 

The ravenette ripped away from his captain, escaping the warmth of his touch, “I'm going back out.”

 

“Not until I know you're stable!” Enjolras grabbed at him but the boy thrashed his arm, throwing him off, “Grantaire!”

 

“You're not my father!” Grantaire shouted suddenly, startling the other, “You don't get to decide how 'stable' I am! If you think I'm so mad, kick me off this boat. But don't you dare think you know what's best for me! I'm going back out to earn you money and make myself forget that I almost lost the one person in the world who gives a shit about me!”

 

**

 

The first thing he did was strip off those sweatpants, the material too rough on his limbs.

 

“You stupid idiot,” Combeferre shoved his friend into the bed, pulling the blanket up over him, “You better keep this in mind next time you decide to jump down a fucking shoot.”

  
“Yeah, yeah,” Courfeyrac laughed, tired now that his heart had stopped racing, “For a second, I really thought I was gone. How long was I laying there?”

 

“Thirty seconds, maybe.”

 

“It felt a lot longer,” Courfeyrac curled his legs up, the skin there chilled, “Fuck, it's hard to get warm after that. I've never really taken a dip before.”  
  


“Consider it your first and last,” Combeferre took off the fingerless gloves he used to keep his grip strong beneath the more rubbery ones they wore on deck, “Here, let me.”  
  


“Let you what?” Courfeyrac sighed as his friend's hands disappeared under the blanket, strong fingers wrapping around one of his calves and rubbing. The friction sparked little tingles of warmth at first but they quickly spread, seeping into his muscle. He rested his head on the pillow, closing his eyes as he let the older man run his palms up and down the length of both his legs. He tried not to think about it too hard. It was just to help, nothing more. Just a guy helping another guy out.

 

“Oh,” Courfeyrac let out as rough fingers started up the bottom of his thighs, thumbs pressing down in a way that sent a jolt of pleasure through his cock.

 

“You okay?”

 

Was it him or did his deck boss sound hoarser?

 

“Your hands are just warm,” Courfeyrac pushed the blanket up to hide his reddened cheeks.

 

“Is this okay?” the touch turned bold, skimming past the line of his boxers to run over goosebumped flesh. The flesh grew undeniably hotter, life itself seeming to flow from the older man's fingers into his very cells. Soon enough he was shivering for a whole different reason. There was no way Combeferre didn't feel the pull of his boxers from his growing erections. It was only a matter of seconds before he discovered his problem and then who knew what the fuck was going to happen and-

 

“I'm going to head back on deck,” Combeferre pulled back, standing up and starting to latch back on his gloves, “Do you think you can manage to stay laying down for an hour?”

 

“Like E won't have my balls if I get back up,” Courfeyrac laughed, the sound high-pitched to his ears, “I'll be back out before you know it.”

 

“Just get some rest, and try to be more careful,” the blonde scolded lightly, lips quirking in a kind of smirk, “Between you and your cousin, we're all going to need pacemakers by the end of this trip.”

 

Courfeyrac didn't dare breathe again until the man was gone and the door was shut between them. He waited another full minute with his ears tuned for any more disturbances. Once he was sure he would be left alone, he shoved his hand down the front of his underwear.

 

If he thought about hay-colored hair and a hoarse whisper, that was his business and no one else's.

 

******

 

Even the deck couldn't clear Grantaire's mind. It was just as cold, slick, and numbing as before but now he had to sort crab and take out bait cups with the image of his cousin panicked face burned into the back of his eyelids. An hour later, Courfeyrac came out with a big grin and a fresh attitude. He picked up the darkened spirits, laughing loud enough to echo from bow to stern.

 

Everyone managed to shake off the almost-travesty.

 

Everyone except for their greenhorn, who's mouth was dry and hands shaking.

 

******

 

They had an hour break, a rare treat for the entire crew. Éponine finally had time to brush her teeth and take a proper shower, and Joly was blending up protein shakes packed with everything they needed to keep going. He could be heard from the kitchen ranting about their recent inattentiveness to their health, and everyone just nodded along like he could see them. Marius was in a good humor, as always, and was telling a funny story about college where Enjolras and a couple of their friends got chased up a tree by a pack of police dogs.

 

“You should've seen him when he came down. He had longer hair then and there were leaves and twigs sticking in it. He'd ripped his pants from knee to ass but he was the only one who could climb. The others kind of just fell down.”

 

“Shut up! I was one of them!” Combeferre's retort followed Grantaire to the bedroom, the rest of the crew's laughter echoing off the walls. The artist shut the door behind him, going straight for his duffel. He hurriedly ripped it open, shoving his hands inside and pushing around all his clothes and hairbrush and razors he hadn't used to find what he was looking for.

 

A single, clear bottle with a heavy cork in it. Filled halfway with caramel colored liquid. He pulled it off, pushing off a sock that was clinging to the neck before pulling the cork out. He tilted it up and started chugging, fire licking down his throat and filling his chest until his eyes blurred up.

 

“ _Get down there, you little suckers. Go back to the sea so we can catch your boyfriends and-”_

 

Grantaire pulled his mouth away long enough to take three desperate breaths before latching onto the lip again.

 

“ _Don't let me go, R, oh God, don't let me die.”_

 

He coughed, sputtering, lips wet with cognac.

 

“Get out of my head, fuck, please,” Grantaire pressed the heel of his palm into his eyes, trying to force out the words and his cousin's wild look.

 

Another drink and the world tilted.

 

******

 

Their break ended and everyone rushed to the gear room, donning their jackets and gloves with ease before spilling out onto the deck. All but one.

 

Grantaire struggled with his jacket, the fasteners too much for his overly warm fingers. He could feel how hot his ears and cheeks were, the tip of his nose. He giggled into his hand for a moment before he tried the coat again, rolling his eyes when he realized that he had it on inside out. He was just starting on his belt when there was a call on deck to watch their heads.

 

A wave collapsed over starboard, washing straight over the deck and drenching everyone. A few of them stumbled under the froth, their bright orange jackets disappearing long enough beneath the white to have their captain come out of the wheelhouse. Enjolras rushed down the stairs, lips curling around each name as he did a manual head count. Combeferre saw his captain's face overtaken with a look of panic and he felt it on his own, looking around to see who they'd lost.

 

“Where's Grantaire?” Enjolras demanded, striding onto the deck to scan the ocean, “Did anyone see him? Where the hell is he?”

 

Before anyone could start to panic, Grantaire stumbled out onto the deck with his coat still stuck on one arm, “Here I am!”

 

He tripped over his own feet, laughing as he landed on the boards. He was still chuckling when he managed to get up, the others all staring at him.

 

“Sorry! Sorry,” he leaned against the door, waving his head around, “Bit of a spectacle here.”

 

“Thank God,” Enjolras raked a hand through his hair, mussing the blonde locks, “I thought you were in the water. Where the fuck were you?”

 

Grantaire snorted loudly, “You do realize that God's not out here, don't you?”

 

The older man glanced at Courfeyrac, who looked pale, before glaring at his younger cousin, “What?”

 

“In fact, God's not anywhere,” he gave an exaggerated frown, shaking his head, “You all bow your heads and talk to an imaginary man in the sky for protection from a sea that's right in front of you.”

 

Horror was dawning on the faces of the crew.

 

“Do you think God's going to save you? Fuck,” Grantaire snorted again, this time so hard he actually coughed a little, “If he was up there, he'd start drowning us for fun just to decrease the population to keep the majority alive for a few longer generations.”

 

Enjolras walked right up to him, blue eyes cutting into his own.

 

“Whoa,” the artist tried to step back and lost his coat, “Zoom in, much.”

 

“Are you drunk?” he demanded coldly.

 

“Me?” Grantaire asked too loudly, “No! No!”

 

“Damn it, R!” Courfeyrac had a deep scowl cut across his face, “You promised.”

 

“Okay, okay,” he flapped his hand, “I'm a little drunk. A _little_. One small, tiny bottle of cognac. It was the good stuff, I promise.”

 

Enjolras raised a hand, biting back whatever he was going to say and curling his fingers into a fist, “An entire bottle?”

 

He shrugged, belly still tingling, “I'm used to a lot more than that.”

 

Enjolras whirled on his second mate, “You didn't tell me he was a drunk!”

 

“Ah, but he didn't tell you I wasn't,” Grantaire grinned despite himself, “Unless he did, which is a bold faced lie.”

 

“You little fucker!”

 

Grantaire couldn't remember a lot after that. His cousin was in his face, there was a punch to the jaw, and then it all got fuzzy.

 

**

 

Every bed on the sea was a water bed. They rocked, and moved, and swayed you like womb. It could keep a man awake or put him to sleep.

 

Grantaire woke up with a throbbing cheek and old blood in his mouth.

 

“Oh shit,” he groaned, pushing himself up out of bed by the sheer muscle of his arms, “Oh no, oh fuck.”

 

Grantaire still had his boots on and his coat was on the floor, thrown in after him. He felt a little more sore than usual on his shoulders and hip, like he'd been banged around before thrown into bed. Dragging his coat by the sleeve, he started making his way toward the deck. He stopped at the foot of the stairs, changing his mind and heading up to the wheelhouse instead.

 

Keeping his footsteps as quiet as possible, he eased up the stairs and peered into the room. Enjolras was puffing on a cigarette, the piled ashtray telling him it wasn't the first. He looked furious, though a strained-neck look outside told him they were pulling full pots with a lively host of crab.

 

“Sir?” Grantaire started, taking the walk of the shame towards the captain's chair, “I have no idea how to apologize for this.”

 

“I would say you've been nothing but trouble since you came on board, but I'd be lying,” Enjolras stubbed out his cigarette, a thin stream of smoke pouring falling over his lips, “Right now I want to strangle the life out of you for putting everyone in the position you did.”

 

“Drunk on deck,” his upper lip drew back in a snarl, “I've never had such insolence on my boat.”

 

“I understand,” Grantaire lowered his head, “If you want to leave me at the dock when we go in...I...”

 

“I'm not leaving you.”

 

Grantaire perked up, thanks spilling from his mouth before they were cut off by a hard look.

 

“Oh no, you little brat,” Enjolras got up and stomped toward him, snatching a fistful of his hood before jabbing a finger toward the window, “You're going to go out there and work your pert little ass off. You're going to earn back every ounce of respect you lost with those men with your blood, sweat, and tears. You're going to go the speed of a seasoned deck hand. And by God, you better be the most helpful thing on this entire boat.”

 

Grantaire was sure this was where he was supposed to rebel and ask _If I don't, then what?_ but he was filled with an unimaginably strong urge to obey. He nodded furiously, feeling the brush of Enjolras's fist through his jacket.

 

“I gave an order: No drinking on my boat,” Enjolras wanted to slam the kid up against the wall and bite his neck, show him who was in charge, but he didn't, “When I give an order, your job is to say 'yes, sir' and follow through.”

 

“Yes, sir,” he confirmed, nodding again.

 

“I'm not trying to drive a wedge between you and the crew,” his grip lessened just a little, “I'm _not_. But I understand why you...why you succumbed.”

 

Blue eyes looked up through his lashes at him, hope shining in them.

 

“I'm not condoning it,” Enjolras shot back, “I'm simply saying I understand.”

 

“Of course.”

 

“I recommend you keep your head down and work to bring in crab,” he let the boy go, “And the moment you get below deck, I believe you owe them a sincere apology. You won't get forgiveness but it's how you'll start.”

 

Grantaire chewed the side of his lip, “Do they hate me?”

 

“They're concerned for you,” Enjolras ran a thumb over his forehead, forcing back the starting pangs of a migraine, “We all are. To drink on a boat...you're either suicidal or desperate.”

 

“I know, I know,” Grantaire watched his cousin approach the shoot with trepidation, carefully pushing down the excess crab, “It's no excuse but...alcohol and I have a bad relationship, we always have. I see it and I know that if I dump the whole thing down my throat, I'll feel better.”

 

The blonde eyed the boy from the curve of his shoulders to the narrow line of his waist, “You must be torn up something fierce on the inside to need that much self-medication.”

 

“You have no idea.”

 

The words sat heavy in Enjolras's gut. He wanted to wrap the boy up in a hug and kiss the pain out of the corners of his eyes. But he was a strong boy and he was visibly piecing himself back together. Only time would tell if that strength would hold. He was rooting for him, although silently.

 

“Go,” he nodded toward the door, “You have a lot of time to make up for.”

 

******

 

The next sit-down dinner was tense. They shoveled food into their mouths and kept their eyes down, some from lingering anger and others from pure tension. It took a couple long minutes before Éponine cleared her throat, putting down her spoon.

 

“After my first opie season, I cried,” she announced, “I almost didn't come back for red crab. Hell, I almost quit fishing all together.”

 

Courfeyrac bumped shoulders with his cousin, “If we're confessing...I threatened to jump ship on a life raft my third week. If Enjolras hadn't slapped me around a little, I would've called the Coast Guard myself.”

 

“Really?” Grantaire inquired, looking at the both of them with new eyes.

 

“Don't let this one fool you,” Feuilly tilted his head toward their deck boss, “He bitched and moaned and E had to drag him back on for three seasons in a row before he decided to stay.”

 

Combeferre jabbed the engineer in the elbow with a fork, “Shut the fuck up, man!”

 

“The point _is,_ ” Éponine emphasized, “Stop beating yourself up. Just be a rockstar for us and we'll even buy you a case of beer on dock.”  
  


Grantaire's eyes danced from each crew member, getting agreeing shrugs and head-nods, “Guys...”

 

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph - no chick flick moments!” Joly groaned, “I'm way to tired for this.”

 

Laughter echoed through the galley, carrying through the _Liberté_ and up to her captain.

 

* * *

**Unfortunately, guys, this will be the last chapter for a little while. I'm going to get "You Paint What You Can't Have" wrapped up (which will be a marathon of writing this weekend, so look for something this coming Tuesday) and then it's time for "Saints and Walkers". It's not ending (jeez, we only have like four chapters left) but it's definitely not one of my priorities at the moment (school has taken number one slot again, damn it). I really like this fic, it's fun to write, but it's going on "for fun" backburner. I hope you'll subscribe or follow or whatever and be patient with my weary old bones (21 is ancient in fandom years). So hopefully you'll stick around for the ride and be pleasantly surprised when I pop up a new chapter.**

**Drop a comment if you feel the need. Drop a suggestion for a scene (I love those). See you next time.**  

 

 


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